


What Happens in the End

by messageredacted



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight (2008), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messageredacted/pseuds/messageredacted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s been a mass breakout at Arkham Asylum, and someone has been killing mob leaders. While Batman tries to track down the Joker and the Scarecrow, he discovers signs that something is rotten in Gotham City. What is the Joker planning? Who is the Scarecrow working for? And why do all clues point to a man named Sherlock Holmes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written on 26 April 2011.

**“I’ve been thinking lately. About you and me. About what’s going to happen to us, in the end. We’re going to kill each other, aren’t we? Perhaps you’ll kill me. Perhaps I’ll kill you. Perhaps sooner. Perhaps later.” — _The Killing Joke_**

##

The Scarecrow fell to the ground in a heap when they let go of him. His hands, cuffed behind his back, were unable to break his fall, but he did manage to turn at the last second and land on his shoulder instead of his face, which was a plus. Breathing heavily against the burlap sack over his head, Scarecrow stayed curled in a ball and waited. The cold of the concrete soaked up through his Arkham reds.

Someone said something, voice muffled, and then a hand yanked the sack off his face. Scarecrow squinted against the bright overhead light. A tall silhouette stepped away from him, tossing the sack away.

“Jonathan Crane,” said a voice from a few steps away. Scarecrow blinked rapidly, his eyes watering.

“Scarecrow,” he corrected, his voice a little hoarse. He pushed himself up on one elbow and struggled to sit up.

They were in an alley between rows of shipping containers. A street light cast a bright yellow glow over everything. It smelled like fish and engine oil.

The man who had spoken was standing just on the edge of the light, in an expensive, impeccably tailored suit. He was attractive and young, and not what Scarecrow had expected. He gave Scarecrow a pleasant smile. “Isn’t it a lovely night? You didn’t get a breeze like this in Arkham, did you?” He had an accent that could have been Irish.

Scarecrow sat up fully, darting a glance at the second man, the one who had taken the sack off his head. That man was taller and blond, and he wore dark clothes over hard muscles. He was holding a crowbar loosely in one hand. Scarecrow looked quickly away.

“Let me guess,” Scarecrow said slowly. He didn’t recognize either man but he was never picky about his clients. The Irish mob in Gotham didn’t have nearly the reach of the Italian mob, but they still had their fingers in the drug trade and Scarecrow had sent some of his special drugs their way. “Your customers are screaming about bugs in their brains.”

The Irish man rocked on his heels. “No,” he said. “Not _yet_.”

Scarecrow hesitated. He wished he had his mask on. This was so much easier with his mask on. Jonathan Crane was a nervous man but Scarecrow wasn’t afraid of anything, and it was so much easier to be Scarecrow when he had his mask. He could feel sweat trickling down his ribs, even though the night air was cold. In the distance, sirens were sounding.

“You went through a lot of trouble to make a business deal,” Scarecrow said, his eyes flicking to the man with the crowbar again. The Irish man followed his gaze.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Crane. I wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of breaking you out of Arkham Asylum if I only intended to have Seb beat you to death,” the man said. He smiled pleasantly at Scarecrow. “I was really hoping we could organize some sort of business deal.”

Okay. This was unexpected. Scarecrow jangled his wrists behind his back. “Then do you think you could help me out, here?”

“My apologies, Mr. Crane.” The man nodded at Seb, who came forward with the crowbar. Scarecrow tensed, wondering if he could kick the man’s legs out from under him when he got close enough.

“I wouldn’t,” Seb said conversationally. He stepped behind Scarecrow and grabbed his bound wrists. There was a click as the handcuffs disengaged. Seb returned to where he had been standing before.

Scarecrow rolled his shoulders and then got to his feet, smoothing down his red jumpsuit. “Ah, thank you,” he said.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t have this conversation in better surroundings, but.” The man shrugged and tilted his head as if to imply that there were any number of regrettable reasons why that could never happen.

“You want the fear toxin,” Scarecrow said bluntly.

“I am…” The man paused, seeming to look for the right word. “I am acting as an intermediary for a client who is interested in your fear toxin, yes.”

“Why can’t he come to me himself? I’m not interested in dealing with lackeys.”

Seb’s eyes narrowed and Scarecrow caught himself. That was probably the wrong thing to say. Just because he was no longer handcuffed didn’t mean that he was home free yet. Scarecrow bit the inside of his cheek and tried not to wince.

The man glared at him. “Mr. Crane, I don’t think you understand the situation here. My client is not a drug dealer. We’re not here to amuse ourselves with the _junkies of Gotham City_.” His voice dripped with disdain. “If your fear toxin is satisfactory, he’s interested in going into production on a large scale.”

Scarecrow stared at him. “How large, exactly?”

“We can discuss details at a later date, but he is willing to pay quite a lot. And of course, he will fund your transfer out of the States.”

“My transfer out of the…” Scarecrow trailed off, thinking hard. There had been a time before he was the Scarecrow for real, when he was Dr. Jonathan Crane, the head of Arkham Asylum, and he had only wanted to use his fear toxin to get himself more power and money. He had liked to tell himself that he was still basically a decent guy, since he only ever used the toxin on the inmates who were already in the Asylum, and they were criminals anyway. He hadn’t wanted to let the fear toxin loose on the people of Gotham; he just wanted to hold them for ransom. And after he got a taste of his own medicine and started selling the stuff to the junkies on the street, maybe that wasn’t really moral, but they were junkies for God’s sake. They brought it on themselves.

He had no idea what this client was going to use the toxin for. A foreign client, looking to mass produce the fear toxin? There was really no way that could be a good thing.

But… It really wasn’t his business, was it? He could hardly be held responsible for what his client did with the toxin. He provided the tools. He had no influence over whether the client used the tools to build something great or to, well, beat someone to death.

Scarecrow looked towards Seb again.

If it came down to it, he would trade the sanity of a few thousand theoretical victims for his own safety. There was no question.

“I’m intrigued,” Scarecrow said, trying to play it cool. “I think we can work something out, Mr…?”

Scarecrow held out his hand. The man smiled, but it was no longer pleasant. There was something vaguely reptilian about it. The man stepped forward and Scarecrow almost withdrew his hand, but instead he let the man grasp it. The man’s grip was dry and cool.

“Moriarty,” the man said. “And I think you made the right choice.”

##

Late morning sunlight slanted in the windows of the Baker Street flat, highlighting the clutter on the table and the as yet unpainted sills, replaced since their destruction in the explosion in March. The glare was almost too bright to look at, especially after a night of no sleep. Well, three nights of no sleep if he were being honest. Sherlock Holmes rubbed at his aching eyes.

There was a clatter down the hall. Sherlock stopped rubbing his eyes and waited, listening. Silence.

“All right there, John?” he called.

There was a thud in the hall and then slow footsteps. John appeared in the doorway.

“Fine,” he said with a tight smile.

Sherlock’s gaze flicked to the sling supporting John’s left arm, and the white-knuckled fist his free hand made. There was strain in John’s neck and the set of his shoulders. He was wearing slippers, which meant he’d been in too much pain this morning to tie the laces on his shoes—an unnecessary part of his wardrobe, as John hadn’t left the flat since the incident, but one that John attempted every day. He was still unshaven, another bad sign.

Sherlock got to his feet and waved an awkward hand at the sofa, offering John his seat. “Tea?”

John sank down into his usual armchair instead. “Thank you,” he said. They had done this ritual so often that John no longer boggled at the offer. Sherlock escaped the room.

He filled the electric kettle with water in the kitchen and then lurked near the cupboards, trying to find teacups. There had been some changes to the flat in the last four weeks—the biggest being John moving into Sherlock’s bedroom downstairs while Sherlock took the one upstairs—but even the little changes such as moving things down onto the kitchen counters to put them in John’s reach were enough to throw Sherlock off balance.

No. That wasn’t what was throwing Sherlock off balance.

John had jumped in front of a bullet for Sherlock.

How was Sherlock supposed to act after that?

He found the tea and sugar as the water started to boil. In the other room, the television turned on. Sherlock made the tea and then paused again, listening to John shift uncomfortably on the sofa.

The wound was keeping John up at night, as he couldn’t sleep comfortably in his bed, and the lack of sleep was only lowering his tolerance for pain. The bullet wound (a straight shot through his chest, shattering his shoulder blade and collarbone and narrowly missing his heart, sending a shard of his rib to puncture and collapse one lung) was healing well but taking its time. It had been four weeks, and the bones were mostly healed, but the flesh had a way to go.

Logically, Sherlock knew that John was the closest thing he’d had to a friend in a long time, perhaps ever. John had lasted as his flatmate longer than anyone else; he had been valuable on cases, if only as someone who made appropriately impressed noises when Sherlock was clever; Sherlock even cared for John’s wellbeing. But John had risked his life—nearly _died_ —to keep Sherlock alive, and that simply didn’t follow logic at all. What could drive someone to do such a thing? It left Sherlock at an utter loss.

Sherlock took a breath and then carried the two cups of tea back into the living room. He set John’s down on the table next to his elbow. John was leaning gingerly back in the seat, his eyes closed.

“You didn’t sleep, did you?” John asked, not opening his eyes as Sherlock took his seat on the sofa again.

“Mycroft sent me the report on the bullets recovered from the pool,” Sherlock replied, sidestepping the question. “The guns used were L115A3 long range rifles, used by the British Army. There’s a black market in England for them, but I suspect they were bought out of the country. He would have bought a number of them at the same time, and an order like that in the UK would have drawn suspicion.”

“Sherlock,” John said slowly, opening his eyes. “It’s been four weeks. Moriarty is as far away as he can get.” He paused for breath. “There’s no need to stay awake for days at a time tracking him. He’s gone.”

“He’s not _gone_ , John!” Sherlock said, far more sharply than he had intended. “As long as he’s alive he’s a danger to us, and the trail is getting colder every day. I can’t let him make another attempt.” His lip lifted slightly and he added, before he could stop himself: “You can’t exactly give up your _other_ lung for me.”

John ignored the comment. “You won’t find him if you aren’t at your best, and you aren’t at your best if you don’t sleep.” He paused, his gaze seeming to focus on Sherlock for the first time. “Or _eat_. God, Sherlock, when have you last eaten?”

Sherlock got up from the sofa. “Mycroft said he’d have more for me this afternoon. I’m going to go to the lab until then. If you need anything, call Mrs. Hudson.”

“Sherlock…” John said, sounding desperate, but he didn’t follow when Sherlock stalked into the hall, for which Sherlock was grateful. He didn’t want to have to hear John struggling to walk, in pain and out of breath.

Sherlock started down the hall to his bedroom, then stopped and turned back toward the stairs. His bedroom was upstairs now. This entire flat had been turned backwards and upside down since the incident at the pool. Maybe even since before then. And until he tracked down Moriarty and carved his revenge into Moriarty’s own flesh, things were not going to return to normal.

##

The body of Mario Falcone had been found sitting on the couch as if he had fallen there, his bathrobe open to frame the bullet wound in the center of his furry chest. The window had been shattered by the bullet.

Batman visited the building across the street first, squatting on the tar and squinting down at the broken windows, where the forensics team was walking around in paper booties. From here he had a straight view to the corpse on the couch. This is where the killer had stood.

He straightened up, watching the lights flashing on the police cars down on the street. The night air was milder than it had been the past few nights. The sky was the dark orange of Gotham night. Batman stepped to the ledge and spread his wings.

He dropped thirty feet, then caught an updraft and spiraled lazily over the street where the police cars were gathered. Police Commissioner Jim Gordon was talking with two police detectives by the front door. Not surprising that he was here. It was a high profile murder.

After the death two years ago of Carmine Falcone, head of the mafia in Gotham, and the death of his rival Salvatore Maroni and arrest of most of his subordinates one year later, the mob presence in Gotham had suffered a grievous blow. It had been like a giant tree falling in the woods, leaving an enormous space for new growth to spring up. Competition among a few of the smaller crime syndicates in the city had been fierce. Mario Falcone, who had been groomed to succeed his father but had nowhere near his father’s charisma, had recently made a few attempts to bring the mob back together. It appeared that his rivals had other plans.

Batman circled once more until he was sure that someone had seen him. Then he rode an air current over the roof of a parking garage and pulled his wings in. He dropped onto the roof of the apartment building where Mario Falcone had lived.

The police would be racing up the stairs to get to him, he knew. He couldn’t let them catch him. He pulled the envelope out of his utility belt and placed it on the gravel roof. The word _Commissioner_ was neatly typed on the front of the envelope.

Then he stepped up on the edge of the roof and jumped.

##

Batman waited on the fire escape behind Gordon’s apartment. In the window, he could see Gordon and his wife Barbara side by side at the sink, washing dishes together. The flickering light of the television came through from the living room where the two children, Jimmy and Bobbie, were watching a movie.

After a moment, Gordon glanced up at the clock on the wall and then dried his hands on a towel. He kissed his wife on the cheek and grabbed the bag of trash from the bin. He pushed open the back door to the apartment and came down the steps to the trash can.

“I got the papers you left for me,” Gordon said, tossing the trash into the bin. He closed the bin and then turned toward Batman as if he were savoring the night air. “We arrested the two Arkham guards who took bribes and allowed the breakout.”

“I know they were paid, but I don’t know who paid them yet,” Batman replied. “The money went through too many hands before it got to them. I’m tracing it back.”

Gordon nodded and a look of unease crossed his face. “Nothing yet from the Joker or the Scarecrow. We’ve rounded up most of the other escaped inmates.”

“We’ll hear from them soon enough.” Batman watched Gordon’s wife dry her hands on a towel in the kitchen. “I don’t think they can stay quiet for long.” He transferred his gaze to Gordon. “I’m looking for them, but until they’re back in Arkham, be careful. Keep an eye on your family.”

Gordon nodded and glanced over his shoulder. His wife pointedly did not look in their direction as she left the kitchen.

“Tell me about Falcone,” Batman said.

Gordon focused on him again. “He’s got a lot of enemies, that’s for sure. I could name you three dozen guys in this city who’d want him dead, and that’s just off the top of my head. But whoever did it was a professional. It was a high powered rifle. Forensics is looking at the bullet we recovered from the body. Best guess so far is military, but not American military. I’ll know more in the morning when they file their official report.”

“Let me know,” Batman said.

“You’ll be the first to find out,” Gordon said.

Batman stepped back into the shadows.

“I can help, you know,” Gordon said suddenly. “You don’t have to take this on yourself. Have you even slept?”

Batman didn’t answer. Gordon waited a second, then let out a breath.

“Be careful,” he said, stepping back. He turned away from Batman, heading back into the house.

“Always,” Batman said to Gordon’s retreating back.

##

The warehouse was empty and the overhead lights cast everything in a bright white light, which made the blood only stand out even brighter.

One of the junkies was clawing at his face, screaming about rats. That was where the blood had come from—his fingernails were sharp. The second was trying desperately to escape the chain linking his ankle to the floor, and shrieking while he did so. The third had died too quickly, most likely of a heart attack.

Jonathan Crane was pacing the floor somewhat uneasily, watching the action, his shoulders hunched and his arms crossed over his chest. He seemed almost unnerved by the show, and kept looking away, but he always looked back.

The faint chemical-perfume smell of the fear toxin still lingered in the air. Jim Moriarty could taste it on the back of his tongue, but all it was to him was a taste. He had taken the antidote, as had Seb. Crane at first had refused the antidote, saying that he had already been exposed to the fear toxin and it had driven him as crazy as he was going to get, but Seb had insisted that if he and Jim were expected to take an unknown antidote, Crane was going to take it first to make sure it wasn’t a trick.

“After a few hours of exposure, the damage is permanent,” Crane said, his voice breaking through the ragged screams of the junkies. “But recovery is complete if you get the antidote in time.”

“What is the damage?” Jim asked pleasantly. “In your professional analysis.”

Crane licked his lips, darting a glance at the junkies. “Increased adrenal output. Exaggerated startle reflex. Hallucinations. Delusional thought patterns. Suicidal ideation. Voices—there are voices in your head, and you always feel like you’re, like you’re being watched…” He trailed off and sent a quick glance over his shoulder before guiltily looking back at Jim. “If you survive the initial dose, anyway.”

Seb, hands in his pockets, prodded the dead junkie with the toe of his shoe. One of the other junkies lunged for him, grabbing for Seb’s ankle. Seb kicked the man in the throat and then stepped back out of reach while the man gurgled and curled up on the floor.

“How long would it take you to mass produce this?” Jim said to Scarecrow.

Crane looked at the junkies again. “It, ah, requires some specialty ingredients that would need to be imported. But the actual production isn’t labor intensive.”

“Fine. We’ll take it.” Jim looked toward Seb, who drew his gun. He fired one shot each into the heads of the junkies. They both collapsed onto the ground. The shot reverberated through the warehouse, and when the echoes finished, silence fell.

“About my trip out of the States,” Crane said carefully.

“Is there a problem?”

“How soon can I get out of here?”

Jim could see the rings of sweat soaking the underarms of Crane’s shirt. The man was nervous, and not just because of the the poisoned junkies. The man was obviously afraid of Seb, and maybe he even suspected that the flight taking him out of the States might end in a bullet in the back of the head and a boot kicking him out into the Atlantic, but there was something more to his fear than that. Crane looked over his shoulder again. Ah, there it was.

“Someone’s been threatening you,” Jim said. Crane’s gaze snapped to him.

“I don’t want to get involved in the middle of this,” he said desperately. “I’m just here for this business deal.”

Jim smiled. “Someone gave you a message to give to me?”

Crane rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “The, ah. The Joker. He told me that he knows that people are hiring you to take out their rivals.

Jim shrugged, noncommittal. If he had to be in America for this fear toxin job, he might as well establish a market for his services here. Someone had hired him to take out Mario Falcone, and after that, everyone was clamoring to hire him.

“He says if anyone hires you to kill the, uh, the Batman, turn them down.”

Jim laughed out loud. Crane flinched back. Seb strolled over to them, holstering his gun.

“Your flight out of the country is in two days,” Jim said to Crane. Crane looked from him to Seb and then to the junkies, then nodded and backed away.

“Get rid of the bodies. I’m going back to the hotel,” Jim said to Seb, watching Crane retreat to the warehouse doors.

“The Joker’s warning you off now?” Seb said, not moving. Jim turned and gave him a look but Seb stayed where he was.

“If he wants me to do something for him, he’ll have to hire me,” Jim said. The warehouse doors closed behind Crane.

“He’s dangerous.”

“ _I can handle the Joker_!” Jim shouted. His voice echoed off the far walls with a slap. Seb held up his hands.

“I know,” he said.

“Keeping me safe is your job,” Jim said. “So do it.” He turned away from Seb and headed for the doors.


	2. Chapter 2

The whirr of the lift pulled Bruce Wayne out of his half-doze. He straightened, wincing at the knots in his back, and rubbed at his eyes. After combing the streets for any sign of Scarecrow or the Joker, Bruce had come back to his underground bunker to try his surveillance videos. He had planned to take a nap at some point, but it had never happened.

The lift lowered down to the floor and Alfred stepped off it, holding a cooler in one hand. “Good morning, Master Bruce.”

Bruce stifled a yawn. “Morning, Alfred.” The icon for his email client was jumping on his computer screen, letting him know that he had a new email. It was from Gordon, sent to his secure, anonymous account, and included a series of high resolution photographs of the bullet recovered from Mario Falcone’s body.

Alfred stopped next to him and began unpacking the cooler. He pulled out a glass and decanted a bright green kale smoothie into it, one of Bruce’s favorite breakfasts.

“The shooter used an L115A3 long range rifle,” Bruce said, scrolling down.

“That’s British Army,” Alfred said, passing Bruce the glass. “I used one in the SAS.”

Bruce took it and leaned back in the chair, draining the glass. “I wouldn’t be surprised if our shooter had military experience. He’s a professional, in any case.” He set the empty glass down and pulled the keyboard towards himself, starting to type. “I _would_ be surprised if he’s current military. I’ll see if this gun has been used in any other crimes.”

Alfred collected an empty coffee cup from the desk and carried it over to the sink against the wall. The coffee maker was still on, though the coffee that remained in the pot had been cooked to sludge by now. “I don’t suppose there’s a point in asking if you slept.”

“I’ll sleep later.” Bruce didn’t look up from his computer as he typed.

“Any news on the Joker?” Alfred phrased the question in a way that was slightly too casual, although Bruce had known him long enough to see what was behind the words. Alfred didn’t approve of Bruce’s single-minded determination to find the Joker. Alfred had actually referred to it as an obsession, though Bruce refused to concede his point. It was his job to track the man down. Personal revenge didn’t factor in.

“Nothing,” Bruce said shortly.

Alfred was silent, washing the coffee pot in the sink. Bruce frowned.

“Nothing from the Scarecrow, either. I would have expected something from him by now. Both of them, really. I don’t know if they’re capable of staying quiet.” He pushed back his chair, letting his search run. “I still don’t know who let them out of Arkham, but I suspect it had something to do with one or the other of them. They’re two of the biggest criminals Gotham has seen. Neither of them had any contact from the outside as far as the guards knew, but I can’t imagine that it had anything to do with anyone else in Arkham.”

“Could it just be a distraction for you?” Alfred dried his hands on a towel and turned back to Bruce. “Something to keep you busy while something goes on elsewhere?”

“I thought of that,” Bruce admitted. “I’ve been keeping an eye on chatter from the criminal underground. But think of it this way: someone went through a lot of trouble to let all the inmates out of Arkham. Why? Just to cause chaos? I’d think there were easier ways. To get someone specific out of Arkham? More likely, and they released everyone to cover up which inmate they wanted to release. Which makes me think that if I knew which inmate, I would be able to know what they wanted him for. They wanted this secret for a reason.”

“You believe someone hired the Joker or the Scarecrow for a job,” Alfred said.

“If it’s the Scarecrow, someone wants the fear toxin. If it’s the Joker…” Bruce spread his hands. “If it's the Joker, someone wants chaos.”

“Terrorism in both cases.”

The computer beeped. Bruce turned back to it. The search had come back with a result. On the screen were files from the New Scotland Yard.

“The same gun was used in three separate shootings in London,” Bruce said. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. “Connected with two explosions. And there’s a name here.”

Alfred studied the screen. “The killer is a long way from home.” He glanced at Bruce and smiled faintly. “I know that look.”

There was a name connected with two of the incidents. Bruce tapped the screen with his finger. “I think I need to pay a visit to Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

##

Sherlock straightened up on the sofa, his shoulders suddenly going tense. “I’ve found him.”

There was no need to ask which ‘him’ Sherlock meant. John sat on the edge of the armchair, squeezing the foam ball that the physical therapists had given him. Without the cast, his arm and shoulder looked frail and thin. He had lost some muscle mass in his arm after the four weeks of immobilization, and it made him feel lopsided. “Where is he?”

“The same gun was used in a murder in Gotham City,” Sherlock said. “The victim was a up-and-coming leader of the Italian mob.” Sherlock looked up from the laptop, his pale eyes alert and excited. “Moriarty is expanding his business. He’s doing favors for the criminals in Gotham City to build up a reputation.”

“Does he think you won’t be able to follow him there?” John asked.

Sherlock gave a sharp shake of his head. “He’s not ceding ground. He’s advancing. He know that I won’t stop until I weed out every corner of his empire, and he’s going to make that as difficult as possible.” He snapped the laptop shut and shot to his feet. “Get your passport. I’ve booked us two tickets to Gotham City.”

“Passport?” John floundered. “We can’t just— You expect us to fly right there?”

“The forensic report with the information on the bullets was posted eight hours ago,” Sherlock said. “Moriarty will know that it was posted, and will know that I can find it. He’ll expect me to come. I can’t delay any longer. We need to be at Gatwick in two hours.”

“But Sherlock—” John flexed his wounded arm.

Sherlock’s eyes fixed on it. “You’re nearly healed,” he said.

“I can’t shoot with my arm like this. Even if I had a gun.”

Sherlock waved dismissively. “Guns are easy to buy in America. And I imagine you’re still a better shot than I am.”

John hesitated, still sitting down. “Sherlock—”

“You don’t have to come with me,” Sherlock said.

John swallowed. “You can’t go on your own.”

“Then go get your—” Sherlock stopped in mid sentence and lifted his head, looking toward the kitchen.

John looked over his shoulder and felt his body go rigid. Someone was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, dressed in black armor. John saw the cape brushing the floor, and the sharp, pointed ears of the mask.

“No one’s going anywhere,” said Batman.

John rose to his feet slowly, watching the man. Of course he knew who Batman was—it had been big enough news when the strange costumed man started working in Gotham City that even the London newspapers had been talking about it—but why the man was here, in their living room, was far beyond him at the moment.

“You’re here about Moriarty,” Sherlock said coolly, as if he were entirely unsurprised to see Batman. John almost smiled at Sherlock’s unruffled words.

The man’s dark eyes turned to Sherlock. “I’ve done my research on the two explosions that happened here a month ago. I’ve read everything available about the crimes he’s committed here. But I know there’s more about him that’s not in the official reports. Tell me what you know.”

Sherlock inclined his chin, looking argumentative. “You’ve come a long way just to talk to me. You could have emailed me.”

“I like face-to-face conversations,” Batman said.

“Then let me see your face,” Sherlock said.

Batman smiled thinly. “I don’t think we’re enemies here. James Moriarty is as much of an enemy of mine as he is yours.”

“Hardly an enemy of yours,” Sherlock said immediately. “You’ve adopted him as a pet project because he killed someone in your city.”

“Killing someone in my city makes him an enemy,” Batman said. His voice was suddenly cold.

“I’m flying to Gotham this afternoon,” Sherlock said. “I’ll take care of the problem.”

“Like you took care of it before?” Batman remained perfectly still in the kitchen doorway. “People are in danger. We don’t need your revenge getting in the way. I’m going to stop Moriarty, and all I need is for you to tell me what you know about him.”

“You’re a detective. Don’t tell me you can’t figure him out,” Sherlock said.

Batman stared at Sherlock in silence for a moment, then said, “James Moriarty has no criminal record. Your statement links him to the death of a kid named Carl Powers in 1989, but there is no actual evidence. You also have accused him of being involved in the gas explosion in the building across the street, and in the explosion that killed twelve, and in the kidnapping of five civilians, but there is no evidence connecting him to any of that except for your and Dr. Watson’s eyewitness accounts. No one else spoke to him on the phone. The kidnapped civilians who survived never saw anyone at all, and the only one who claimed to hear his voice was killed in the explosion. The bullets recovered from the scene of several of the crimes, including the death of a Chinese woman last month, link all of the crimes together, but do not link them to Moriarty. He is not the sniper, and no one knows who the sniper is.”

Sherlock remained silent, his half-lidded eyes daring Batman to continue.

“But these obviously aren’t his only crimes,” Batman continued. “He can’t be that good at what he does without experience. Your report to the police calls him a ‘consulting criminal’. It fits with the crime in Gotham City. He was hired to take care of Mario Falcone. He didn’t murder the man himself, but he arranged for it. Looking at the crime reports in London over the past few years, it’s not difficult to see a hint that he could have had a hand in a few of them.”

“Twenty-five percent,” Sherlock said.

Batman blinked at him, thrown off guard. Sherlock lifted his chin.

“Twenty-five percent of the crime in the UK can be connected back to Moriarty.”

John glanced at Sherlock. He expression hadn’t changed, but John knew that there had almost been a note of grudging acceptance in his voice. Not respect—it would take a lot for Sherlock to respect him—but not disgust anymore.

Batman seemed to have caught the change as well. “Tell me what you know about him. Tell me how I can find him and stop him.”

“Sebastian Moran,” Sherlock announced. “That’s the man Moriarty uses to do his dirty work.”

Batman tilted his head to the side. “I don’t recognize the name.”

“He was a Colonel in the Royal Marines before he was discharged,” Sherlock said. “His family has connections in the criminal underworld that Moriarty found useful. You may not be able to find Moriarty, but you might be able to find Moran.”

Batman nodded slowly. “Thank you,” he said.

“Now answer a question for me,” Sherlock said. “Was Jonathan Crane released from prison, or did he escape?”

John saw the flicker of shock on Batman’s face before he managed to hide it. “There was a mass breakout five days ago.”

“Ah. And naturally he has yet to be recovered.”

“You think he’s connected to Moriarty?” Despite his surprise, Batman was recovering admirably.

“I thought it was rather obvious,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“Explain.”

Sherlock smiled, obviously enjoying his control over Batman once again. “In London during the March twenty-sixth protests, there were reports that people paid protestors to throw rocks. In the Egyptian protests, the police dressed as civilians and committed violence to justify the crackdown against the protestors. I’ve heard rumors of some governments looking to import more weapons and mercenaries to stop the protests before they start, but others are looking for ways to increase the violence. It’s bad public relations to use excessive force against peaceful protestors, but another thing entirely to use it against a population that’s gone mad.”

“Someone hired him to get Scarecrow’s fear toxin,” Batman said.

“Moriarty had no reason to go to Gotham City. There are better places where he can set up his business without attracting the attention of costumed crime-fighters. Why Gotham City? Because he needed something there. What does Gotham City have that no other place in America does? A rather high rate of domestic terrorism.”

“I destroyed his stores of the toxin when he was arrested. It will take him time to make enough to sell.” Batman took a step back. “Thank you for your help.”

Sherlock said nothing. Batman disappeared into the kitchen. John walked to the door of the kitchen and looked in, but Batman was already gone, and the window was already closed.

“We’re still going to America, aren’t we?” John asked.

“Get your coat,” Sherlock replied. “I have a few calls to make.”

##

“Have a wonderful day,” Jim Gordon said, giving Barbara a peck on the lips. She smiled at him and kissed the end of his nose.

“You too,” she said. “I have a meeting tonight so you have to pick up the kids, remember.”

“Of course I remember. I have a mind like a steel trap,” Gordon said. He raised his voice to shout into the kitchen. “Bye!”

“Bye!” the kids chorused back, Bobbie still with her mouth full. Gordon gave Barbara a wave and went out the door.

Barbara shut and locked the door behind him and returned to the kitchen, where she had been in the middle of packing the kids’ lunches. The kids, still sleepy, were eating their cereal at the kitchen table. The morning outside the kitchen window was still cold and dark.

“Can I have pickles in my lunch?” Jimmy asked, his spoon scraping the bowl. The ten-year-old still looked half asleep, his blond hair uncombed.

“Of course,” Barbara said, pulling the jar of pickles out of the fridge. She glanced into her daughter’s cereal bowl as she skirted the table. “Bobbie, finish your cereal. You need to get dressed.”

“I’m not hungry,” Bobbi said sleepily. “I don’t like this cereal.”

“You’ll be hungry later if you don’t eat it now.”

Bobbie dug her spoon reluctantly into her cereal and lifted it to her mouth. She had her mother’s red hair and the ability to sulk for hours, Barbara thought fondly. Up until a year ago, they had given her the nickname Barbie, but recently Bobbie had announced that she was not a plastic doll and she would only answer to Bobbie from then on.

Jimmy washed his bowl in the sink and then left to finish getting ready for school. Bobbie took her time, obviously hoping that her mother would let her leave and get dressed if she took long enough.

Barbara closed the last lunch pack and turned around. “Am I going to have to talk to you?”

“No,” Bobbie mumbled. She put another spoonful of cereal in her mouth and chewed slowly. Barbara stacked the lunch bags on the kitchen table, then spotted her husband’s briefcase sitting on the counter where he had left it.

“That man,” Barbara muttered, shaking her head. “Mind like a steel trap, my ass.”

“Mom, I don’t have any clean pants,” Jimmy shouted from his bedroom. At the same time, there was a quick knock on the apartment door.

“Go bring your father his suitcase,” Barbara said to Bobbie, heading for the door leading to the bedrooms. “Then go get dressed. You’re going to be late for school.”

Bobbie eagerly slid off the chair as Barbara headed down the hall. Jimmy was standing in his underwear in his bedroom, surrounded by dirty clothes.

“I told you to sort your clothes for the laundry yesterday,” Barbara said.

There was a loud bang in the other room, like something had fallen off a shelf. Barbara turned.

“Bobbie, was that—” she started.

Bobbie started screaming. Barbara sprinted back down the hall, followed closely by Jimmy.

When she burst into the living room, Barbara saw a few things very clearly. The first was Bobbie, lying on the floor, her hands clutching her stomach, her shirt stained bright red. The second was the flash of a camera, so bright that it left spots in her eyes. And the third was the scarred, grinning face of the man in the doorway, his face painted white, his hair a shock of freshly dyed green.

Jim had made her take self defense courses before, and had taught her how to disarm a gunman in extreme circumstances. Barbara lunged for him. The Joker raised the gun again, laughing, and she knew that he was going to shoot her in the face and leave her there for Jim to find when he came back for his briefcase. Barbara snapped her hand out, grabbing the Joker’s wrist and twisting it down and to the side, so it discharged harmlessly into the floor. The flash of the camera went off in her face and then she heard the clatter as the Joker let go of the gun and it hit the floor. He wrenched his wrist out of her grasp and melted back out the door as she was still fighting the spots from her eyes.

“Mom, she’s been shot!” Jimmy said, crouching over Bobbie.

“Call 911,” Barbara said. She slammed the door shut and locked it, then dropped to her knees next to Bobbie while Jimmy leapt up to obey. “Bobbie, talk to me. Tell me what happened.”

Bobbie was staring up at her, her teeth chattering. “I didn’t look out the peephole,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Barbara tore off her shirt and wadded it up, holding it against Bobbie’s stomach. “It’s okay, sweetie,” she said, her mouth dry with panic. “We both thought it was Daddy, didn’t we? It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

Someone banged on the door and Barbara flinched. “Barbara!” her husband shouted in the hall. “Oh god, Barbara, I heard the shot!”

Barbara didn’t let go of the compress on Bobbie’s stomach. Jim was talking fast into the phone, his lower lip trembling. Bobbie was staring up into Barbara’s face, her eyes wide.

“It’s going to be okay,” Barbara said again.

##

The flight took eight hours, although with the time change, Sherlock and John arrived only three hours after they’d left London.

“I don’t suppose you thought about where we’ll spend the night,” John said, struggling to keep up with Sherlock as they navigated their way to baggage claim. Sherlock was actually walking slower than usual, a concession to John’s injuries, but he kept getting excited about the thought of the case and would stride forward again.

“A hotel, of course,” Sherlock said carelessly, his bag slung over his shoulder. It had been a struggle to convince Sherlock to take more than one change of clothes. John had explained that, at the very least, the American airport security would pay a little too much unwanted attention to someone making an international flight with only a suit jacket and trousers.

“This is Gotham City,” John said, knowing how much Sherlock hated it when he stated the obvious. “Things are expensive here. I don’t have a lot of cash available, and I can’t imagine you’d room in a youth hostel.”

Sherlock stared at him blankly as they reached the taxi stand. “The hotel will be taken care of,” he said. “If Mycroft’s willing to pay for a hotel room, I’m not one to deny him.”

 _You live to deny him_ , John thought, but he didn’t say it out loud. Instead he said, “What is your plan?”

“I’ve an appointment at Arkham Asylum for one o’clock.” Sherlock glanced at his watch. “I could drop you at a hotel and head straight there.”

“I could come with you,” John said. The taxi driver opened the boot for their luggage, though they didn’t have much. Sherlock slid into the taxi and John climbed gratefully in after him.

“You can barely stand,” Sherlock said.

“I’ll rest on the taxi ride. You don’t expect to be running, do you?”

“I always expect running when I’m investigating,” Sherlock said, but there was a note of humor in his voice.

“Where to?” the taxi driver asked, getting in as well.

Sherlock glanced at John. “Arkham Asylum,” he said.

Gotham City was a conglomeration of several islands tightly connected with bridges and tunnels. The northernmost island was colloquially referred to as the Narrows, and seemed to be mostly residential, low income and ethnic neighborhoods. The center island was the financial and business district, with the largest hotels and skyscrapers and the reservoir in the center. Wedged in between the two was the tiny island that housed Arkham Asylum. Furthest south was the island that housed the police headquarters, courthouse, City Hall, and embassies. Smaller islands in the vicinity housed the airport and Blackgate Prison.

John’s injured shoulder throbbed from the stress of the day. It was nearly completely healed, but there was still a bone deep ache if he moved it too much, and his arm was weak. It exhausted him. After he was injured in Afghanistan, he had gone through rehab with the same methodical obedience that he had done everything in his life, his brain in a fog of insomnia and post traumatic stress. Now every part of his body balked at the thought of going through that again.

The taxi took them north, past the park and reservoir. John could see glimpses of water rippling through the trees. There were a number of people out, given the excellent weather. Past the park, the road met up with the monorail.

The bridge took them over a branch of the river and then touched down again on the tiny island that housed the asylum. Three concentric rings of barbed wire fence wrapped all the way around the several acres of Asylum grounds. Of the asylum itself, John could see a long, sprawling building that could perhaps have once been an ornate house, though the wings that had been added to both sides were more obviously meant to be a prison.

The taxi pulled up to the first gate, next to the guardhouse. Sherlock opened the window and the guard leaned out.

“Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson,” Sherlock said to the guard. “We’re here to see Dr. Arkham. We have a one o’clock appointment.”

The guard glanced at his computer, then nodded and pressed a button. The gate rolled back to let them in.

They drove down a narrow, fenced-in pathway until they reached a small parking lot, which was nearly full of expensive cars. The taxi dropped them off here.

“The board of trustees is meeting today,” Sherlock said mildly, glancing at the cars.

“How did you get an appointment with Dr. Arkham?” John asked.

Sherlock smiled. “My reputation precedes me. When I told him I was in the city and was interested in figuring out how the breakout occurred, he was eager to meet with me. Apparently the board of trustees is unhappy with the breakout and is threatening his removal.”

They entered the building, where a second guard booth did a more thorough search, checking their identification and making them step through a metal detector. One guard hand searched them while a second went through their shoes. They were given visitor’s passes and led down a hall to the back of the administration building.

The board of trustees meeting had indeed been going on, because it was just getting out as they reached the hallway with Dr. Arkham’s office. It was more apparent from here that this part of the building had been a house. The hall was narrow and the windows here looked out onto the grounds. A group of men in expensive suits were standing around the entrance to the board room. John could smell coffee. A few of the men glanced their way as they approached, and one broke off from the group.

“Sherlock Holmes?” the man said, his eyes darting back and forth between Sherlock and John.

“Dr. Arkham,” Sherlock said, shaking the man’s hand. “This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson.”

Dr. Arkham shook John’s hand as well. “I’m glad you took time out of your undoubtably busy schedule to come look into this. We were just discussing the breakout at our meeting.”

“It’s a terrible business, terrible,” said a gray-haired man by Dr. Arkham’s elbow. “We can only hope the last of the inmates are captured soon.”

“We’re at risk of losing our contract with the city,” said another man.

“Marcus Haversham,” the gray-haired man said, holding out a hand to shake. “I’ve heard of your work. Amazing stuff. You’re just the man we need to look into this.”

Sherlock shook his hand. “I can’t promise anything,” he said.

The second man held out his hand as well. He was one of the youngest men in the group, dark haired and handsome. “Bruce Wayne,” he said.

“We’ve met,” Sherlock said mildly, shaking his hand.

John saw Bruce Wayne’s expression freeze for just a second before he laughed, showing off a set of perfect white teeth. “Have we? I’m terrible with faces.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock said. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” He nodded to Dr. Arkham.

“Gentlemen,” Dr. Arkham said, nodding to Bruce and Marcus. “The staff are setting up a lovely luncheon in the hall. Enjoy yourselves.“ He and Sherlock turned away. John followed, glancing at Bruce as he passed. It wasn’t until he reached Dr. Arkham’s office that he realized who Bruce Wayne was.


	3. Chapter 3

Dr. Arkham walked them through the steps of the prison breakout. The prisoners had somehow been supplied with a copy of a master key and at least four knives, which had aided their escape. More evidence of an outside accomplice was apparent at the outside gate to Arkham, where the two guards on duty had been shot. The prisoners had stolen two prison transport vans and escaped in them. The prison vans had been discovered, empty, later that evening. One had been parked on a street in the Narrows. The other was in the opposite direction, down by the reservoir.

Sherlock refused to give Dr. Arkham any of his conclusions, although he did say that he would be in touch. Dr. Arkham walked them back out to the entrance of the building.

“I’m glad you were able to come,” Dr. Arkham said. “I’m certain the board will be reassured to know that you are looking into this.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said noncommittally. “Is it possible for us to call a taxi?”

“Don’t worry about that,” said a smooth voice by the front desk. Bruce Wayne straightened up from where he had been flirting with a nurse. “I’m sure I could give you a ride. The taxis in this city are extortionate.”

“How thoughtful of you, Bruce,” Dr. Arkham said, his tone slightly patronizing. “If you gentlemen are all set, I need to get back to work.”

Bruce gave him a lazy wave and then gestured for the door. “Shall we?”

The three of them started for the doors. The guards opened it for them, letting them out into the humid air of the mid-afternoon. The cars in the lot were baking under the sun. Bruce led them to a dove gray Maserati GranTurismo. The engine was already running.

“What hotel are you staying in?” Bruce asked as they reached the car.

“We’re not yet,” Sherlock said. “We haven’t had a chance to find one. I believe my brother suggested the Renaissance Gotham.” He went for the front passenger seat, so John went for the back seat. When he opened the door, cold air puffed out. The leather seats were chilled.

“You recognized my face?” Bruce said mildly, pulling on his seatbelt. He started the car.

“Your mask only covers half your face. It wasn’t hard.” Sherlock sounded bored. “It was also obvious that Batman would need a lot of money. You were in London far too quickly for you to have taken a commercial flight, so you must have a private jet. I can’t imagine there are a lot of Gotham City residents with private jets.”

Bruce grinned. “Most people never make the connection.”

“Most people are stupid,” Sherlock replied.

“Did you learn anything new about the breakout?” Bruce asked dryly. They pulled out of the parking lot. The car ran like a dream, ghosting over the pavement like a bird in flight. John sat back in the seat, relishing the smooth leather against his skin.

“Very little,” Sherlock said. “The prisoners were obviously working with someone outside the prison, who must have told them what to do. They escaped in two vans and went in opposite directions. One of the vans obviously must have met with Moriarty’s men. The men would have taken Scarecrow and left the rest to fend for themselves.”

“Open the glove box,” Bruce said. “There’s a folder in there.”

Sherlock took out the folder. John leaned over the back of the seat to see it. The sheet inside had a series of grainy color photographs on it of a prison van taken from various angles.

“After we talked last night—or rather, this morning, for you—I tried to find security footage of the escape to see if I could find any sign of their outside accomplice. We don’t have the same kind of CCTV footage London does, but we do have traffic cameras. This was the van that was left in the Narrows. It went through five red lights, including one right at the corner where it was found, so the traffic cameras took pictures of it.”

They pulled through the last gate of the prison and then onto the main road. In London, the sun would be setting by now, but it was not even three p.m. in Gotham. John stifled a yawn. He hadn’t had this much activity since he’d been shot.

Sherlock peered at the picture, holding it up so John could have a better view. “There’s a black van in this picture.”

“Yes,” Bruce said. “Parked right on the corner where the prison van was found. This is who they were meeting. The van was rented from an company nearby, under a false name.”

“And where is the van now?”

“The rental company equips all their vehicles with Lo Jack to prevent theft. I need a warrant to officially locate the van using that, though.” Bruce smiled. “Since I don’t have one, I decided to put my best man on the job. He should be getting back to me soon.”

“And you’ll tell me as soon as you hear from him,” Sherlock said.

“I’ll let you know when we arrest him.” Bruce’s voice was pleasant.

“Mr. Wayne,” Sherlock said. “I don’t pretend to understand why you act stupid for everyone else, but there’s no use pulling that act with me.”

Bruce smiled again, although something carefree and casual had dropped away from the expression, leaving it empty. “I have access to resources that you don’t,” he said. “I’m simply better equipped to go after this man.”

“You’re lacking one thing,” Sherlock said. “My brain. Moriarty is more intelligent and vicious than anyone you’ve ever faced.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Bruce said.

“Then you have no concept of what you’re dealing with.”

“You’ve no concept of who I’ve faced. And I work alone.”

“Your ego will get you killed. We’ve faced him before.”

“And you lost,” Bruce replied.

John winced.

Sherlock pressed his lips together for a moment, then said coldly, “You think you’re protecting us by keeping us away from Moriarty. People under your responsibility have died before. They’ve been killed because of you, and you want to keep that from happening again. I read about the District Attorney Harvey Dent who was murdered last year, and his girlfriend, Assistant District Attorney Rachel Dawes. You raised funds for Harvey Dent’s campaign. You grew up with Rachel Dawes. And both of them murdered by the Joker simply to toy with you. Now you’re alone. It’s obvious from the state of your skin that you don’t sleep at night—your constant coffee drinking dehydrates you. You have the muscles of a man who works out every day, but you don’t eat enough. You act the fool in front of people who should respect you, because you would rather malign your own reputation than run the risk of letting them see who you really are. You don’t care about your reputation. You just care about maintaining the mask, and obsess over keeping watch over Gotham City as if you’re the only one who can protect all eight million citizens from harm. You’re a wreck, Bruce Wayne, and you know you’re going to make a mistake, but you would rather let your mistakes kill you than run the risk of anyone else getting hurt.”

Bruce was silent. John studied him in the rearview mirror. The man didn’t look stunned, nor did he look angry. He looked blank again, in the same way that smile had been blank, empty of all emotion.

“You think telling me that is going to make me want to let you help,” Bruce said.

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

There was silence for a moment. It was broken when a phone trilled. Bruce hesitated, then thumbed a button on the steering wheel. “Lucius,” he said out loud. The sudden warmth and jocularity in his voice was startling. “Tell me you found the van.”

“Bruce,” replied a male voice. “I found your van. It’s been parked at eighteen thirty-seven West Sixty-Eighth Street for the past two days.”

“That sounds like an address in the Narrows,” Bruce said.

“It is. It’s not a residence. It’s at the docks. The van is still there, or at least, it was as of ten minutes ago.”

“Thanks, Lucius,” Bruce said. “I owe you one.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” Lucius replied, then hesitated. “Ah, Bruce—”

“Yeah?”

“I assume you’ve already heard about Gordon.”

Bruce’s voice went flat and John saw tension creep into his shoulders. “What happened.”

“His daughter was shot this morning. She’s in critical condition. I think she’s still in surgery.”

“Who shot her?” Bruce was quiet, as if he already knew the answer.

“It was the Joker.”

Bruce hung up the phone. They were just approaching the hotel. He accelerated and pulled into the driveway, coming to an abrupt stop that made John lurch forward in the seat.

“You have an address,” Bruce said, his voice carefully controlled. “Do what you want with it.”

“When we find Moriarty, I’ll help you find the Joker,” Sherlock said.

Bruce said nothing. John and Sherlock got out of the car. John had barely shut the door before the engine revved and the car shot out of the driveway, pulling directly into traffic. It had disappeared in seconds.

There was a taxi pulling up to the curb. Sherlock waved to it and gestured to John. “Let’s go.”

##

The taxi took them north, past Arkham again and then over the next bridge into the Narrows. The buildings were close together here, the streets cramped and crowded. This was the oldest part of the city, from a time before cars.

Sherlock ordered the taxi driver to stop one street over from the warehouse. They got out into the warm afternoon. The streets were busy at this time of day and there were people everywhere.

“A warehouse makes sense,” Sherlock said to John as they walked. “If Moriarty took Scarecrow for the fear toxin, they’ll need a place where they can import the supplies. Scarecrow’s stores were destroyed. He won’t have ingredients. Moriarty won’t buy from him without a demonstration, at least. And I can’t imagine Moriarty would risk linking Scarecrow with his employer. The employer needs plausible deniability. They’ll have the toxin shipped here, and then Moriarty will arrange for it to be shipped in various routes to get to the right place. He needs a place away from prying eyes to keep Scarecrow from being seen, and he needs a place to store the drug components until they’re shipped.”

“What will we do when we get in there?” John asked. “We have no weapons. Are we going to call the police?”

“If we call the police, Moriarty will escape. He’d never let himself be connected to a crime. Someone else would take the fall for him, and he would disappear again and none of us would be able to find him for some time.” Sherlock looked at John. “I don’t expect him to be in the warehouse right now. He has other work he’s doing. He’s been taking jobs to pass the time. I think that he’s waiting for the shipment, but he would never wait here. Not here in the Narrows, with such poverty all around. He’s a rich man. He’ll be staying downtown. He’ll be in a hotel like ours. We just need to find evidence against him.”

“But what kind of evidence? You just said he’ll never let anyone find evidence against him. That sort of evidence doesn’t exist.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Sherlock agreed. “It wouldn’t exist. But Moriarty’s client is a very powerful man. If he is who I suspect he is—and I’ll have you know I’m rarely wrong—he is one of the most powerful and most dangerous clients Moriarty has ever had. Moriarty will not risk anything going wrong with this deal. He will be doing a lot of the legwork himself. I suspect that he’s met with Scarecrow personally. The Scarecrow, of course, is expendable. He won’t survive the end of his deal. Moriarty can’t risk the Scarecrow passing on information to anyone else. But until the Scarecrow finishes the deal, he needs to remain alive. Moriarty may have him under lock and key. He may have some other hold over Scarecrow. But Moriarty needs to make sure that Scarecrow is under his control up until the end of the deal. He can’t risk Scarecrow being discovered or interrogated, or else it puts Moriarty himself at stake.”

The warehouse was a long, low building next to the water. Unlike the other warehouses and docks along the water, this one was not currently in use. The cranes on the docks were still, unmoving. There were two trucks parked at the loading dock, but no one was around. Sherlock led the way around the side of the building, moving carefully. John kept an eye out for security cameras.

In the back of the beginning, the black van was parked against a wall. Sherlock circled around the van and peered in the window, then shook his head and kept walking.

“The Scarecrow is in here,” Sherlock whispered to John. “See the scuff the door made?”

The two sentences appeared to John to be completely unconnected, but he just nodded and didn’t ask for an explanation. His senses were on high alert, waiting for the first sign of trouble. The last time he’d run into Moriarty, he had ended up in hospital.

The machinery at the other docks was noisy. It covered up any sounds that could have been happening inside the warehouse. Sherlock went to the nearest door and tried the handle very gently, putting his ear against it. The door was locked. He looked around, then started for a drainpipe set in the wall.

“I can’t climb,” John hissed at him.

“I’ll let you in,” Sherlock replied.

“No you won’t. We’ve done this before. Sherlock. Sherlock!”

Sherlock ignored him, grabbing the pipe. He climbed up it to an upper window and peered inside, then let himself in. He disappeared inside.

John sighed and kept walking around the edge of the building. He knew Sherlock would be far too distracted to let him in. He was going to have to find his own way inside.

Halfway around the building, he found another door. This one was unlocked. He pulled it open and squeezed inside, holding his breath and listening.

Still no sound from inside, not even from Sherlock. He was in a short hallway that ended in a longer one. He looked both ways when he reached the long hallway, then chose the direction that headed back toward the way Sherlock had entered the building.

His chest and shoulder throbbed uncomfortably in time with his heartbeat as he walked. He was getting even more sore, despite the painkillers. He was going to need to take a rest soon. No more of this running about after Sherlock. Not while he was injured. He could do this after he healed, but until then, only half days of globe-trotting. He snorted, and then held his breath when he heard footsteps coming quickly down the hall toward him.

A man with a burlap sack over his head burst out of a hallway, nearly crashing straight into John. John grabbed the man, catching a glimpse of a bizarre face in the sack. It wasn’t a sack, it was a scarecrow mask, which meant that this was—

White powder puffed into John’s face. John held his breath and twisted his face away, bringing his knee up to slam into the man’s groin. The man groaned, doubling over. John hung on to him, slamming his fist down on the back of the man’s neck and driving him to the floor. The Scarecrow’s foot shot out and hit John in the leg, nearly toppling him. John staggered away, one hand over his mouth, his lungs straining with the need to breathe.

“I already got your friend,” the Scarecrow said, his voice strained with pain.

John resisted the urge to rush away and find Sherlock. Instead he took another step back and took a breath of clean air, then held it and rushed in again.

Scarecrow had been expecting it, and was coiled to spring at John when he approached. He swung at John, trying to punch him in the stomach. He was not a trained fighter, although he had a few dirty tricks that he must have picked up in Arkham. But John had been trained in combat. He let Scarecrow’s weight carry him past John, then got his arm around Scarecrow’s neck, squeezing Scarecrow’s neck in the crook of his arm. Scarecrow flailed, trying to elbow him and stomp on his feet, but John hung on doggedly. A burst of white powder clouded the air again. John kept holding his breath.

It became a contest of who could last longer: the Scarecrow, struggling to draw in air, and John, struggling to hold it. Scarecrow bucked in his grasp, trying to dig his fingers into the crook of John’s arm to peel it away from his neck. John’s eyes watered. His shoulder was on fire with pain, but if he let Scarecrow go again, the man might escape, and that would alert Moriarty to their attempt, if he didn’t already know.

Scarecrow dug his chin into the crook of John’s arm, trying to bite him. John clamped his other hand across Scarecrow’s mouth and grimaced when Scarecrow spat into his hand. Scarecrow’s struggles were getting weaker. He wouldn’t last much longer.

The edges of John’s vision were darkening. He blinked rapidly and started to let his breath out very slowly through his nose. He could do this. Just a few more seconds. The Scarecrow was almost gone. Just a few more—

The Scarecrow suddenly threw all of his weight to the right in one last attempt, and John felt his shoulder wrench. He involuntarily dragged in a ragged gasp of air, pain bursting in his skull. His arm went numb and Scarecrow ripped out of his grasp, crawling away and sucking in air. John clutched his arm to his chest and scrambled away too, trying to get out of the cloud of toxin to a patch of air where he could breathe again, thinking _shit, shit, shit_. Had he breathed in the toxin? He could hear a whistling noise in the air, and a laugh. The Scarecrow was laughing.

“Too late for you, little man,” laughed the Scarecrow hoarsely. He got to his feet and staggered. “Too late.”

John suddenly realized that the burlap sack the Scarecrow was wearing wasn’t a sack at all. It was his real face, and the mouth was squirming and dripping. John shook his head abruptly, still retreating. This was wrong. He _knew_ the Scarecrow was just a man in a mask but at the same time he knew it wasn’t a mask, and the man wasn’t a man but a monster, and John wasn’t in a warehouse in Gotham City. He was in the barracks in Afghanistan, listening to the high whistle of an incoming missile, an event that happened so often that it should be routine except death raining from above could never be routine. John got up in a crouch, hearing the whistle get louder, feeling the heat on his skin, knowing that it was right overhead and this time it was really going to hit him.

“Sherlock!” he screamed, although why was he screaming? Was Sherlock there in Afghanistan with him? He must be. John dropped to his knees, covering his head, even though that would never save him. “Get down!”

 _I already got him,_ the man had said. If he was a man. If he was telling the truth. If the missile hadn’t already got him. John had to get to him. Sherlock didn’t know how to behave in a war zone. Sherlock was a law unto himself, but that wasn’t going to save him when the bombs started falling, or kept falling, or fell.

The monster-man was gone, if he had existed at all. John shoved himself up to his feet, put one hand against the wall, feeling the heat of the desert on the other side of it. He could still hear the whistle of the missile getting louder. He struggled to run, although he felt as if he were running through sand. He wasn’t going to get to Sherlock in time because he didn’t even know where Sherlock was.

“Sherlock,” he shouted again, and this time there was an answering yell somewhere. Was there? Or was he hallucinating? John made it to the end of the hall where the Scarecrow had come from. It shouldn’t have taken him this long to get to the hall. How slow was he moving? He couldn’t tell.

There were stairs here, leading up. “Sherlock,” John shouted again. He climbed the first step, clutching the railing. His other arm was burning with pain. Sweat was soaking through his shirt, from the heat or maybe just from the pain. He was shaking. Gunfire burst somewhere in the distance, an empty rattle. He shouldn’t have been able to hear it here. Wasn’t he on the base?

No, he was in a humvee. They were bouncing over a dusty road in a convoy. The humvee wasn’t even armored. The doors were just canvas. Not all of the vehicles here had armor, since armor was expensive. It was only used in the places with the worst fighting, where people could expect to be shot at. They were just traveling in a convoy through the rocky desert, the mountains rising purple in the distance. They shouldn’t be shot at. But was that gunfire that he heard?

“Sherlock,” John said, though he couldn’t remember why he’d said it. In some distant part of his brain he was aware that he was sitting on the stairs, soaked in sweat and shaking. He knew if he didn’t get to safety soon, this toxin was going to cause permanent brain damage. But this knowledge was so distant that he could barely make himself move, because layered over that was the awareness that he was in a humvee in the desert of Afghanistan, and the whistling missile that he had heard before was actually a rocket launched from someone hidden in the hills, and the humvee ahead of them had just gone up in a fireball, and there was nowhere to run in a desert as flat and empty as this one.

##

Sherlock was standing on the edge of a pool.

He had been here before, of course. He showed up here every night in his dreams, and the edge of this pool was so familiar that even with his eyes closed he could tell where everyone stood, recognize from the smell of chlorine and old shoes that the pool was to his right and the locker room to his left. In his dreams, he could always feel the red laser sites of the rifles bouncing and quivering on his chest and his head like a swarm of angry bees waiting to sting. He could hear the buzzing hum of them and the ghost of air as they brushed over his face.

In his dream he always pulled the trigger. The explosion always took them all, roaring through the entire room like a train, bringing the building down on their heads. In real life, of course, he hadn’t had time to shoot. John had noticed something that Sherlock hadn’t, and had shoved him into the pool, and as the two of them fell, Sherlock had heard the shot, felt John’s body shake. The bullet had been meant for Sherlock, because he had posed the greatest threat to everyone in the room, but John had taken it instead.

It had been a shocking miscalculation on his part. He had somehow thought that Moriarty wouldn’t have him killed. He was still certain that Moriarty would never have given the order to have him shot. He simply hadn’t calculated that one of the snipers would decide to drop Sherlock where he stood rather than risk the explosion, going against orders in the process. It had been a mistake, and because of it John had been shot. John, who saw nothing if it wasn’t pointed out to him. John, who knew the bullet was coming when Sherlock hadn’t a clue.

Sherlock pulled the trigger and the room exploded.

He knew the fear toxin was making him delusional. He knew it increased his pulse and body temperature. His body was flooded with adrenaline right now. He knew—or he was relatively certain—that he wasn’t actually at the pool, and there was no bomb, and there was no gun, and there were no snipers. He was pretty sure that John was not here.

John.

John should be here. Hadn’t John been with him recently? Was that really John he could hear screaming as the explosion ripped through his body? No, the explosion had never happened—John had been shot. John was being shot. He could hear the gunshot, feel the water closing over his head. He could taste the blood on his tongue when he inhaled water and started to choke. John’s blood. John would bleed out in this pool, but Sherlock couldn’t figure out which was was up, which seemed to be one of the simplest mysteries in the world if he could only observe—

Sherlock was on his knees in a warehouse office, or by a pool, or under the water perhaps. He was shaking, and water was dripping off his nose—sweat, or tears, or chlorinated pool water—and in the distance he could hear someone screaming his name, but he wasn’t sure if that was part of the delusion.

He pushed himself up, up to his feet or to the surface. _Stay low for the snipers. No, there are no snipers. Then who shot John? John wasn’t shot._ He moved forward, swimming or staggering, and then nearly fell down again when the air didn’t hold him up as the water should. He wasn’t in the pool then, most likely. He was at the top of a set of stairs. He was—

The ground disappeared underneath Sherlock’s feet. The deep end of the pool opened up beneath him. He fell.


	4. Chapter 4

The motorcycle roared under Batman as he cut between cars, dodging in and out of traffic as if he were flying. He was in his black biking leathers and the black mirrored helmet, anonymous enough to work as Batman if necessary, yet capable of being Bruce Wayne as well if he needed to. It was still late afternoon and the sun was high in the sky. Batman only came out at night, but right now was an emergency, and if he didn’t get out on the job he would kill someone.

He should have known about Gordon’s daughter earlier. He should have been paying attention. He should have spent more hours tracking the Joker, following the leads. The Joker was the most dangerous man in the city right now. He would have killed thousands if Batman hadn’t stopped him last time.

Instead he had only killed twelve. Only Commissioner Loeb and Judge Sorillo and Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes. Rachel…

The pain of that death would never grow old. Batman should have saved her, but he wasn’t in time.

And somehow Batman had let himself become too distracted by this man named Moriarty and his plot to kidnap the Scarecrow. A sinister plot, of course, but the Joker had proven again and again that his only interest was making Batman suffer, and the only other person with whom Batman associated who was still alive was Jim Gordon. He should have known that Gordon would be a target. Looking back, it was _so obvious._

Everyone who worked with Batman ended up damaged in some way. This was why he worked alone.

Batman pulled into the parking lot of the bar and parked. He stalked to the door of the bar, moving in such a cloud of rage that the few men smoking outside the bar moved out of his way. He didn’t take off his helmet, even as he yanked open the door and stepped into the darkness of the bar.

He was in the Narrows, in one of the slimy places that the lowest of Gotham’s citizens liked to hang out. It was a pathetic crowd at four in the afternoon, but Batman didn’t need a crowd. He just needed someone with a face he could break.

He went straight to the bar. The bartender started to retreat but Batman launched himself over the counter and grabbed the man by the collar.

“Who sold the Joker a gun?” he growled.

The bartender’s eyes went wide when he heard Batman’s voice, obviously recognizing it. “I, uh, I don’t—”

“Either you know who did it, or you know someone who does.”

The bartender’s eyes darted left and right, looking for someone who could step in and help. “I swear I don’t. I heard he was out, but I haven’t seen him.”

Batman turned his head to study the rest of the crowd in the room, all of them frozen and staring at him in shock.

“One of you knows,” he said.

Silence was his only response.

Batman turned to look back at the bartender. The bartender was wide-eyed, watching his own reflection in the visor of Batman’s motorcycle helmet.

“Mike,” he squeaked. “Tell him what you know.”

“Fuck it, Jason,” said one of the other guys at the bar in disgust. “You’re an ass.”

Batman let go of the bartender and climbed back over the bar. The man named Mike was sitting nursing a beer in a booth. He eyed Batman warily as Batman approached and put his hands down on the table.

“Never seen you wear that before,” Mike said.

“Tell me,” Batman said.

“I didn’t sell him nothing. I’m not crazy. The last thing that freak needs is a weapon.” Mike flicked a glanced up at Batman’s helmet, then looked around at the guys in the bar. “But I know he been talking with some guys on fifty-ninth. They sold him a nine mil and some bigger firepower. Coupla high powered rifles. He was asking about C4 but they don’t carry that kind of shit.”

“What else?”

“That’s it, man. That’s all I know.”

Batman straightened up and looked around the room. A few of the clientele had slipped out while he was talking with Mike. The rest avoided his gaze. He turned and strode for the door. The men on fifty-ninth would know more.

As he stepped back out into the sunlight, Batman hit the on switch for the police scanner in his earpiece. It was a habit. He liked to keep abreast of the police activity, especially now that he was wanted by the police. Someone could have called the police while he was in there, although at that kind of bar, it was unlikely.

There was radio chatter about a disturbance on sixty-eighth. Batman climbed onto his motorcycle, then hesitated when he heard the address. Two police officers had arrived at the scene and were requesting an ambulance. Two males had been found, in their early to mid thirties. Possible fear toxin exposure suspected. The ambulance was on its way.

Batman drove.

##

He stopped briefly at his bunker at the docks to change his clothes and vehicle before heading south to the hospital. He arrived fifteen minutes after the ambulance, but he wasn’t concerned. All hospitals in Gotham were equipped with the fear toxin antidote now. After the incident two years ago in which most of the population of the Narrows had been poisoned, and with the accidental overdoses of dozens of people in the year before the Scarecrow was put in Arkham, it had been necessary for every hospital to have the antidote on hand.

“Mr. Wayne!” exclaimed the flustered receptionist when he entered. “I don’t think the chief knew you were coming in today. He left early.”

“Surprise,” Bruce said, hoisting a smile on his face. He leaned on the woman’s desk and tried to remember how to flirt. His carefree Bruce Wayne impersonation felt far away from him at the moment. “Actually, I’m here because I heard about the Commissioner’s daughter.”

The receptionist flushed. “Ah, well we don’t usually give information out to non-family members…”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Bruce said. “I just wanted to make sure she’s getting the best care this hospital can give her. The Commissioner’s an asset to this city and his daughter deserves better than what city worker health insurance can provide.” He flashed a grin.

The receptionist smiled as well. “Of course.” She glanced down at her computer. “She’s not in a room yet, which might mean she’s still in surgery. The family will be in the waiting room, if you wanted to see them.”

“Thank you,” Bruce said.

The emergency room waiting room was right down the hall. A wall of windows cast afternoon light on the people huddled there, everyone looking like refugees from some terrible accident. Bruce’s eyes picked out Gordon and his family immediately, sitting in the corner of the room. There were news crews outside, undoubtably reporting on the tragedy.

Bruce hesitated. If he approached, it would turn into a publicity stunt, and Gordon’s family didn’t deserve that. This was a private moment for them.

Gordon glanced up and caught his eye, which made his decision for him. He couldn’t turn away now. He crossed the room.

“Commissioner,” he said quietly, feeling the cameras turn their way. “I just heard the news. I’m—I hope your daughter is okay.”

Gordon stared at him blankly for a moment, then said, “Thank you.” He looked as if he wasn’t quite sure who Bruce was.

“If you need anything—anything at all—please don’t hesitate to ask,” Bruce said. He was frustrated with how formal his words needed to be, but Gordon didn’t know Bruce. Gordon couldn’t know that Bruce was Batman, and that Batman was responsible for all of this.

“You were there for me when my parents were killed,” Bruce said. “I just—I wanted to…offer my help.”

He didn’t know what else to say, so he left it. Gordon nodded.

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne,” Gordon said.

Bruce hesitated a moment longer before turning away. The knot in his throat was back. The Joker was going to pay for this. Bruce couldn’t let anyone else get hurt.

##

Sherlock had been arguing with the nurse for five minutes when Bruce came in. John was starting to get a headache, so he was grateful for the interruption.

“She won’t give him an x-ray,” Sherlock said as soon as Bruce came in. “He could have broken his rib again.”

“It’s not broken, Sherlock,” John said, exhausted. His arm was in a sling again, although they had given him some nice painkillers and he could feel nothing but a distant throb. “It was my shoulder, and it was just a very minor sprain.”

“Four weeks ago you were lying in hospital with a bullet in your chest,” Sherlock snapped.

“No I wasn’t,” John said. “The bullet went out the other side.”

“The doctor has decided he doesn’t need an x-ray,” said the nurse. “We’d like to avoid unnecessary medical procedures. I’ll start the paperwork to have you discharged.” She left.

“Bloody American health system,” said Sherlock.

“So I take it it didn’t go well,” Bruce said.

“I nearly had him,” John said.

“We found Scarecrow in the warehouse,” Sherlock said. “He’d been sleeping there for a few days. But he managed to dose us both and escape.”

“Now Moriarty knows we were close to him,” Bruce said.

“He knew we’d find him eventually,” Sherlock said. “He knew that we’d manage to trace him here. I don’t think we could ever expect to take him unaware.”

“But that was our only lead,” John said.

“We’ll find another one,” said Sherlock.

The nurse came back into the room with paperwork for them both to sign. John shifted to get up from the bed and then hesitated at a flare of pain. Sherlock saw it immediately.

“We’ll check in to the hotel,” he said.

John opened his mouth to protest, then stopped and sighed. He hated the thought of Sherlock suspending his case for him, but he couldn’t honestly be of any help right now. “Okay,” he said.

“You still haven’t checked in?” Bruce asked.

“We were busy,” Sherlock said shortly, signing the forms the nurse handed him. He glanced at the bracelet on the nurse’s wrist, then up at her face. “He’s never going to leave his wife for you. I’d leave him.”

“I’m…sorry?” said the nurse, flustered.

“My guest rooms are available,” Bruce said with a shrug. “There’s plenty of room.”

“That’s not the bracelet you give a woman you plan to spend your life with,” Sherlock said to the nurse.

“But I…like it.” The nurse looked at the bracelet.

“We’ll stay at yours, then,” Sherlock said to Bruce.

##

Barbara was crying. She was trying to be quiet about it, but Gordon recognized the stiff set to her shoulder and the unsteady breathing. He reached up and rubbed her back.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispered to her.

She just sucked in a breath and didn’t answer. For the hundredth time, Gordon looked toward the door, hoping to see a doctor come in to give them news. He dreaded it. As long as the doctors stayed away, Gordon could maintain the belief that Bobbie was still alive.

Jimmy was curled up on the chair next to Barbara, his head in her lap. Barbara stroked her fingers through his hair gently.

“I let her answer the door by herself,” Barbara said.

“Shh,” Gordon said, still rubbing her back. He could feel her heart beating through his hand. “You thought it was me. You would never have done it if you’d known.”

“But I still did it.”

“Barbara, this wasn’t your fault.”

Barbara didn’t answer. He saw her look up, and he followed her gaze.

The doctor was coming through the doorway. For a second, Gordon didn’t react, unable to believe that it was for them. But the doctor kept coming toward them. Barbara shook Jimmy awake and stood up. Gordon stood as well.

The doctor greeted them with a tired smile. “Good news,” she said. “Your daughter made it through surgery.”

Barbara sagged against Gordon. He held her tightly, feeling a grin spread across his face. His body felt lighter than it had all day. “Oh, thank god,” he said.

“She’s being moved to a room in intensive care right now. She’ll have to stay there for the next few days. Before you go to see her, though, I have something I want to talk to you about.”

There was a sober note to the doctor’s voice. Gordon felt his happiness snag on something, like a pull in a sweater. “Is she going to be okay?”

The doctor gestured for them to sit down again and they sank back into their chairs. The doctor sat across from them.

“The bullet damaged her spinal cord. There is a lot of swelling in there, and it’s hard to judge how much she’ll recover, but there’s a chance that she won’t regain control of her legs.”

“She’s paralyzed?” Gordon said in disbelief.

“With a spinal cord injury like this, it’s a definite possibility. She could regain feeling in her legs. She might be able to stand someday. But I don’t want to get your hopes up. It’s very possible that she never will.”

The doctor kept talking, but Gordon was no longer listening. He felt numb. Bobbie was alive, and that was a good thing, but the Joker had stolen her legs from her. He had stolen her ability to walk and dance and play soccer. And he had done it simply to punish Gordon.

They got up and a nurse led them out of the waiting room and down a hall to the intensive care ward. The room was full of beds, but Gordon’s focus zeroed in on his daughter’s. He didn’t even apologize when he bumped shoulders with another nurse on his way past, causing her to drop papers. He just wanted to be at his daughter’s side.

Bobbie was lying perfectly still in the bed, her eyes shut. Her hair was still tangled, uncombed from this morning. She was intubated, and there was an IV in the back of her hand. Barbara grabbed her hand, bending over it and crying.

“She’s going to be asleep for a few more hours,” said the nurse who had brought them here. She checked the IV and made a note on the chart. “The anesthesia will take a while to wear off.”

Jimmy was standing next to the bed, looking uncomfortable. Gordon wrapped his arm around him, giving him a hug.

“You’re going to have to help your sister out,” he said to Jimmy. “She’s going to need you to be her big brother.”

Jimmy nodded solemnly. Gordon squeezed him and then let go.

Nurses were moving in and out of the intensive care ward, tending to the other beds. The nurse that Gordon had bumped into was gone, but one of her papers was still on the floor. Gordon stepped over and picked it up, intending to put it on the counter.

It wasn’t a paper. It was a Polaroid photograph, still developing. In the photo, Gordon could see Bobbie in her hospital bed, asleep. The sheet had been lifted to show the wide bandages wrapped around her torso.

The photo was the sort that you might have taken at an amusement park. The logo of a carnival was printed on the bottom. There was a quick smiley face drawn in marker underneath it.

Gordon felt his entire body go cold. Jimmy was looked at him, confused, but Gordon was frozen in place, staring at the photo. He had been here. The Joker had been here, right here, right in this very room. Gordon had _bumped into him_ and hadn’t even _noticed_.

“What’s wrong?” said Barbara, looking at him.

“I have to—” Gordon said, and before he’d even finished his sentence he was turning and running for the door, pulling out his cell phone to call the police.

##

Jim was sitting on the hotel room sofa when Seb came in, his ankles crossed on the coffee table, his tie loose. The television was on.

“It went well?” Jim said, not even looking over at Seb.

Seb set down his bag on the floor by the sofa. “That one’s taken care of,” he said. They had been hired to take out another mob rival. The rival was currently cooling on a hotel bed, a neat hole right in his chest. The exit hole wasn’t as neat, but that couldn’t be helped.

“We’ve time for one more before we leave tomorrow,” said Jim.

Seb closed his eyes for a second, then opened them. Jim was watching him out of the corner of his eye, looking amused.

“Will we?” Seb said neutrally.

Jim raised his eyebrows. “You don’t think you can do it?”

“I was hoping you’d change your mind.”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the Joker.”

“It’s an unnecessary risk.”

“Unnecessary?” Jim seemed to ponder the word. “I wouldn’t say that. If you succeed, it will save us a lot of work. Well, save _you_ a lot of work, and save me having to tell you to do it.”

Seb dropped down next to him on the sofa. The news was talking about the Police Commissioner and his injured daughter.

“Then how are we going to kill the Batman?” Seb said.

Jim lifted his chin toward the television screen. “Watch,” he said.

The television showed footage of the Commissioner and his family sitting in the waiting room of the hospital as the news anchor talked grimly about the Joker and his reign of terror a year ago. It flashed to video of the smoking remains of Gotham General Hospital after the explosion last year, and then to the mass evacuations, before jumping back to the footage of the Gordons in the hospital.

“And?” Seb said.

Jim made an impatient gesture for him to stop talking. Seb studied the screen more closely. As they showed the Commissioner and his family in the waiting room, a few people walked out of the waiting room behind them. Seb recognized Holmes and Watson, accompanied by another man he didn’t recognize.

“They made it to the hospital,” Seb said. He was not terribly surprised. From Scarecrow’s report to them, John had still managed to nearly strangle him unconscious even after a dose of the toxin. If Seb had been at the warehouse at the time, he’d have just shot the two of them while they were dosed, but Scarecrow didn’t seem to have his problem solving skills.

Jim waved that away. “They’re with Bruce Wayne. He’s a billionaire debutard whose most newsworthy action has been drunkenly burning down his family home two years ago.”

The man with Holmes and Watson was only visible for a few seconds, but the news station kept replaying the clip, since it didn’t have much else to show. Seb studied the man’s face. “Then why is Holmes paying him any attention at all?”

Jim’s eyes slid over to Seb. “He shouldn’t be,” he said.

“You think that’s Batman?” Seb asked, following Jim’s unspoken train of thought. Since Jim didn’t seem inclined to answer him, Seb continued, “They only arrived in Gotham City yesterday. Why would they spend time with the billionaire unless he had something to contribute?”

“We have to kill Batman now,” Jim said. Seb stared at him and Jim, with an impressive show of patience, explained, “He knows that we were involved with the death of Mario Falcone. If he’s working with Holmes, he already suspects we had something to do with the Arkham breakout. Holmes can do nothing to us, but Batman has connections with the police, despite his wanted status.”

Seb took a breath and let it out. There was no way of getting out of this, he could see now.

“The Joker will plan to kill you as soon as he finds out you’ve taken the job,” Seb said. “He can’t touch us out of the country, but until we leave, I don’t want you getting in any cars that I haven’t examined. I don’t want you getting near the windows.”

“He’ll kill you before he kills me,” Jim said indulgently.

“He can try,” Seb replied.

##

Bruce still lived in the penthouse apartment in the middle of downtown Gotham. The reconstruction of his family home was still underway, but it would be another year before the entire thing was finished, and the penthouse was comfortable enough. Bruce liked being in the middle of the city he protected, instead of hidden away in the Palisades, off the island entirely.

Alfred met them in the foyer. “Ah, Master Bruce. I wasn’t aware you were bringing guests. Shall I set the table for three?”

“Yes, that would be fine. This is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They’ll be staying the night,” Bruce said.

“I don’t eat when I’m on a case,” said Sherlock.

“I’ll set the table for two, then,” Alfred said. Bruce nodded to him and he disappeared.

“This is amazing,” said John, looking around at the room. The elevator had let them out into the room where Bruce did most of his entertaining. A three story wall of windows looked out over the sunset and the skyline.

“It’s just temporary,” Bruce said with a shrug. “The guest rooms are this way. You can get freshened up before dinner.”

It was certainly nicer than the hotel would have been, John had to admit. The guest room was gorgeous. Bruce left them to unpack their luggage. John changed out of his clothes and took a quick shower. His chest was a mass of bruises, especially around his shoulder. He winced, probing it delicately with his fingers. Nothing broken, at least.

When he got out of the shower, Sherlock was lying on John’s bed, despite having his own perfectly adequate guest room the next room over.

“Moriarty will kill the Scarecrow as soon as he has what he needs,” Sherlock said to the ceiling as John got dressed. “He’s useless to us now. If we could have followed him, I’m sure he would have tried to contact Moriarty, but it’s too late for that.”

“Sorry,” John muttered, pulling his shirt over his head.

“I let him get past me too,” Sherlock said neutrally.

“The shipment might still come in at the same place,” John said.

“They’ll change it if they can,” Sherlock said. “If they let us catch it, Moriarty is putting himself and his employer at risk. He’ll need to make sure it’s redirected somewhere else.” He sat up, propping himself up on his elbows. “If we can find out which shipping schedules change in the next twenty-four hours, we’ll be able to tell which one is his.”

A bell rang somewhere in the house, signaling the start of dinner. John rubbed a towel over his hair one-handed. Sherlock rolled out of the bed.

“I thought you weren’t eating.”

“I’d rather talk to you than stay in here and talk to myself,” Sherlock said. He led the way down the hall, apparently knowing where the dining room was without being told.

The dining room held a long table with twenty chairs around it. One end had been set with two places. Bruce was just entering the room.

“Alfred’s always happy when I bring other people home for dinner,” Bruce said, waiting for John and Sherlock to choose their seats before he sat down. “It gives him a chance to show off.”

John sat at one of the places. Sherlock sat down next to him, leaving John between Bruce and himself. Alfred came in with a tray of salads, and set them down in front of Bruce and John. Bruce sat down.

“You don’t have close friends,” Sherlock said. John shot him a look but Sherlock ignored him.

Bruce glanced at him and one side of his mouth curled up. “If you mean people who know I’m Batman, then no,” he said, seeming amused.

Alfred looked over at John and Sherlock, his expression unchanging. John wondered if he was surprised that they knew Bruce was Batman. The look caught Sherlock’s attention.

“You’re more than you seem, too,” Sherlock said to Alfred. He had that gleam in his eye that told John he was going in for the kill. John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “London born, I would guess, but you weren’t born with that posh accent. You’re a working class man. Military experience, but not just that. Special forces? You’re not just a butler, you’re a bodyguard. Bruce obviously doesn’t need a bodyguard, because he can take care of himself, and because no one knows his real identity. So why keep you? Bruce doesn’t tell many people who he is, so you must be very close with him or his family, and most likely you’ve been around since before he became Batman. Am I close?”

“Correct on all counts, sir,” said Alfred, completely unruffled. Sherlock appeared slightly disappointed in his reaction. He transferred his attention back to Bruce as Alfred retreated from the room.

“You don’t keep Alfred just for sentimental reasons,” Sherlock said. “You would get rid of him if you didn’t think he could take care of himself.”

“Get rid of him?” Bruce said. He still looked vaguely amused, his shoulders relaxed as he started on his salad. John wondered if it was an act. Bruce seemed to be quite good at acting.

“Of course no one knows your real identity—for the moment, anyway. But if they did, Alfred would be the first target.,” Sherlock said. This time there was a flicker of a frown between Bruce’s eyebrows. Sherlock continued. “That’s why you make sure that you don’t get close to anyone else, and why you never risk developing romantic relationships. That’s why no one comes here to dine with you except in large, extravagant parties.”

There was a pause as Sherlock waited for a response, sitting back in his chair. Bruce stabbed a forkful of salad and then paused. “You post your address on the internet,” he said. He leaned in and ate the bite of salad.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, waiting.

“You post your phone number online,” Bruce added. “You talk about your methods on your website. John writes a blog talking about your cases. And not just that—you’re under constant surveillance. London itself is famous for its sheer number of CCTV cameras, but your flat had more bugs in it than that.”

John started and Bruce glanced his way. “Of course I checked before I entered your flat. I didn’t want anyone knowing I was there, but I’m sure someone was looking. I don’t know who that someone was, but I think you do. Someone is always watching you. You like being the center of attention. Yes, it puts other people in danger. Your landlady. Your police contact. John. If someone wanted to hurt you, they’d have no problem finding out how. But you never cared, because you had decided that you were a sociopath.”

“He’s not a sociopath,” said John. Sherlock scoffed.

Bruce smiled. “And then someone did actually notice, and did actually put you and John in danger, and I’m going to guess that you’ve been rethinking your life choices recently. It’s a bit late for that, though.”

“Moriarty doesn’t scare me,” Sherlock said.

“No. Moriarty fascinates you. You’re obsessed. You chased him across the ocean just to get him to pay attention to you again.”

“The only reason you’re giving us a place to stay tonight is because you want my help tracking the Joker,” drawled Sherlock. “Speaking of obsession.”

Bruce inclined his head, allowing the point. “We both have someone who wants to destroy us,” he said. “We both put other people in danger just by existing. I hide my identity. You flaunt yours.”

“You don’t want anyone to know who you are so you have an exit strategy,” Sherlock said. “If you want to retire, you can just retire.”

Alfred reentered the room to clear the salad dishes. He placed dishes of salmon in front of Bruce and John.

“I don’t think I’ll be retiring any time soon,” Bruce said, a wry note in his voice.

The conversation went into a lull as Bruce and John ate. Alfred brought them a tray of tea and coffee when dinner was over, and placed a folded note in front of Bruce. Bruce stirred sugar into his coffee as he opened the note, then went still as he read it.

“News?” Sherlock asked.

Bruce pushed back his chair, his gaze distant and his face hard. “Yes,” he said. “I need to go.”

“If I’m to help you find the Joker, you’ll need to tell me more than that,” Sherlock said.

Bruce’s eyes focused on Sherlock and he hesitated on the verge of leaving the room. “The Joker was at the hospital. He took pictures of Gordon’s daughter. The police are searching the hospital now, but the Joker is long gone. And so is Gordon.”

“Gordon’s gone after the Joker for revenge.”

“Or he’s been taken.”

“Just so the Joker can send you a message.”

“ _I’m aware_ ,” Bruce snapped. He turned sharply away from them, heading into the hall. “Stay if you want,” he shouted over his shoulder.

Sherlock got to his feet and John hastily rose as well. They caught up with Bruce as he ducked into a sitting room and opened a secret panel in the wall, revealing the entrance to a room packed with Batman supplies.

“We’re coming,” Sherlock said.

“You have your own case.”

“I like a challenge.”

Bruce started to say something, then shrugged. He grabbed his costume off the wall. “Come on, then.”


	5. Chapter 5

Since the warehouse was now compromised, Jim arranged to meet Scarecrow in a new warehouse, where the imported goods had been redirected. Everything should arrive tomorrow afternoon. It was full evening now, and the handful of stars in the sky were glittering behind the light pollution.

Seb drove the rental car to the warehouse, pulling up to the back door. Jim sat in the passenger seat, and waited while Seb leaned over the back seat to get his gun.

“I’m going in first,” Seb said. “If I say run, you have to run.”

Jim said nothing, smiling in that infuriating way of his. Seb got out of the car and scanned the area around them, then went around to open Jim’s door.

They both went for the door of the warehouse. Seb stayed several steps ahead of Jim, listening carefully. He was alert and tense, straining to see if anything was out of place. Jim had officially accepted the job to kill Batman this afternoon, and half of the money had already been transferred to his account. If the Joker was serious about his threats at all, he would act soon, before they had a chance to kill the Batman.

Knowing Batman’s identity did not actually help them at all. They could certainly kill Bruce Wayne. Seb was confident that he would have no trouble at all doing so. But killing Bruce Wayne meant nothing. They would have to kill the Batman, while he was in costume, so everyone knew what they had done. That was going to be trickier.

The warehouse door was locked, as expected. Seb unlocked it and opened it slowly, then stepped inside. Jim followed. Seb held up a hand, making Jim wait in the hallway with the door shut behind him while Seb moved ahead, down the hall and into the main body of the warehouse.

The warehouse was large and echoingly empty, with a few hulking shapes of old machinery filling the corners of the room. Catwalks ran overhead. One row of lights had been illuminated, lighting up the card table and chairs set up in the center of the room. The Scarecrow was already sitting there, hunched over with his elbows on the table. He watched them warily.

Seb turned to wave Jim forward, but Jim was right behind him already. Jim ignored his sour look and crossed the room to the Scarecrow. Seb stayed close to him, scanning the catwalks. They were full of shadows, and it was very difficult to see where people might be hiding.

“I’m not going to get out of here alive,” Scarecrow said by way of greeting. His voice was a little shaky. Seb transferred his attention back to the Scarecrow.

“What makes you say that?” Jim asked calmly. He reached the table and pulled out the chair, but didn’t sit. “We have a ticket for you with us right now. You’ll leave tomorrow.”

Seb pulled the boarding pass out of his suit jacket and tossed it onto the table. It slid across the surface, nearly toppling into Scarecrow’s lap. Scarecrow didn’t move.

“We told you we’d take care of you,” Jim said. “It would be bad for business if I murdered everyone I work with.”

Scarecrow swallowed, looking down at the surface of the card table. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Did he expect Seb to shoot him right here? Maybe he was smarter than Seb had given him credit for.

“I warned him before this started,” said the Scarecrow. “Just let me get out of here.”

Seb and Jim both blinked at him. Scarecrow’s head jerked forward and then snapped back, blood and brain splattering from his skull across the table. The bullet that had entered the back of his head and exited the front smacked down into the wood of the card table, splintering the plywood.

Seb yanked Jim backward, putting himself between Jim and the direction from which the bullet had come. He saw a shadow move on a catwalk on the other side of the room.

“You didn’t warn them enough,” said a voice behind them. Seb and Jim both turned and looked up. In the catwalks overhead, between them and the door, a young man stood dressed in a heavy winter parka. He looked down at them, his expression blank with terror. “They still went ahead and…took the job, Scarecrow. So sorry.”

Red dots played over the young man’s chest.

“This isn’t very original of you,” said Jim.

“I’m…sorry,” said the young man haltingly. Seb could imagine the earpiece in his ear, telling him what to say. “I just couldn’t…resist. I’m a…copycat at heart.” He gave a weak attempt at a laugh.

“I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement,” said Jim. His voice was still calm.

Seb kept himself in between Jim and where he suspected the snipers might be. This had been so stupid from the start. They should have canceled this meeting. They could have dropped the boarding pass in the post. They could have just killed the Scarecrow when they were finished with him earlier in the week. There were so many sloppy things that had put them into this situation.

“I’m not a man for…agreements,” said the young man. “I have… trust issues. You know how it is.”

“I know the Batman’s secret identity,” said Jim.

There was a pause. Tension was itching between Seb’s shoulder blades. He kept his gun down at his side. As much as he wanted to start firing, there was nothing he could do at the moment that wouldn’t make the situation worse.

“Spoilers,” said the young man.

Somehow, Seb felt as if he heard the squeeze of the trigger just a fraction of a second before the bullet hit the young man in the throat. He stumbled back against the railing of the cat walk, his arms awkwardly flailing, and then tipped over the side, almost in slow motion.

Seb flung an arm around Jim’s shoulders, yanking him back toward the card table and away from the falling body. Even as he did so, he glanced over his shoulder behind them, to see if there was anything he could pull over them as protection against the blast.

Three red dots played over the table for a second before bouncing up over the strangely bulky shape Scarecrow’s body. The anomaly of these red dots, when the snipers should have been running for cover, gave him a split second’s pause. In that split second, he heard the body of the young man hit the floor.

There was no blast.

The young man had not been covered in explosives. It was the Scarecrow who was the real trap.

Jim was already struggling to get out of Seb’s grip, trying to yank Seb towards the door. Seb reversed direction, following Jim’s lead, counting down the seconds to the shot that would set off the bomb. He knew this so well that it could almost have been him on the other side of the trigger. Take a deep breath, hold it, line up the shot, let out the breath and squeeze the trigger on the outflow.

They nearly made it to the door before the world went red.

##

The abandoned amusement park was outside of Gotham city limits, on the mainland. It bordered the river, and in the summer it was filled with people and screaming children, smelling like fried dough and cotton candy. It was still a few weeks out from that, however, and all of the rides were locked tight, the signs all faded from a year of terrible weather.

Someone had cut a hole in the chain link fence near the back of the park. Gordon ducked through it, looking around warily. The sun had set, but Gotham City let out its usual burnt orange glow over the river, and the moon was bright. Gordon didn’t need a flashlight to see where he was going.

The pavement was cracked, with dead grass feathering the gaps. Gordon passed a row of three boarded up kiosks that sold peanuts and soda in the summer. He stopped at the end of them, looking across the bare expanse of pavement ahead. There was a tilt-a-whirl to his left, dark and hulking against the sky. Straight ahead were the rigged carnival games.

The fury he had been feeling earlier had dulled into a constant throb of anguish and smoldering rage. The Joker had been in the hospital with Bobbie. Gordon felt for the reassuring weight of the gun in his holster. As the Police Commissioner, he no longer had need for a service pistol, but he still kept a gun of his own for safety. He’d lived his life in Gotham City. He knew how dangerous the city could be for unarmed civilians.

Gordon wasn’t stupid. He knew that the Joker had led him here on purpose. The logo of the carnival on the bottom of the photograph had been as good as an invitation. The Joker wanted Gordon to come here in a rage. Perhaps the Joker expected Gordon to show up here with the police, to make a spectacle of this. Perhaps he expected Gordon to operate within the law here. Maybe he thought Gordon was going to follow protocol.

Gordon had no intention of doing that. The man had _shot_ his _daughter_.

There was no sign of anyone around. All the lights were out. Gordon didn’t expect that the Joker was working alone, but there was no sign of anyone in the park at all.

Suddenly, in the distance, Gordon caught a fragment of music on the wind. He turned his head, listening. It was coming from the side of the park near the river.

Instead of heading that way, Gordon turned away from it, walking along the chain link fence, staying as much in the shadows as he could. He strained his ears for any other sound, moving slowly.

As he stepped past another kiosk, something touched his leg. It was only the fact that he was moving so slowly that saved him. Gordon froze and looked down. There was a wire stretched taut against his ankle. It was a tripwire. Gordon followed the wire with his eyes to where the wire connected to the pin of a grenade duct taped to the side of the kiosk.

He eased slowly backwards, releasing the tension of the wire. He took a step back and reevaluated the situation. His knees were suddenly shaky.

The Joker had obviously been expecting him to try this.

Gordon looked at the path ahead of him more closely. The tripwire had been nearly invisible. He thought he could faintly make out the glimmer of moonlight on another wire ten feet ahead of him, but he wasn’t certain, and he was sure that if he could see one, there would be more that he couldn’t see.

He could continue on this path around the fence, but sooner or later he was going to run into a trap that he couldn’t detect. He couldn’t risk that. On the other hand, the Joker was obviously trying to herd him in one direction, and following the Joker’s plan was going to get him killed just as dead.

Gordon took a quiet breath. The music had become a little louder in the distance, calling to him.

He turned around and retraced his steps, moving carefully in case there were any other traps that he had bypassed by luck the first time. When he reached the place in the fence where he had come in, he stopped again.

The rows of carnival games across the pavement from him had been lit up. A sign advertising prizes flashed and twinkled over rows of stuffed animals. All of the other kiosks were still silent. The Joker obviously already knew where Gordon was.

Gordon glanced over his shoulder toward the hole in the fence. He could still retreat. His car was parked on the main road a couple blocks away. He could just turn around and leave and officially call this in to the police and Batman. People would probably die before the Joker was caught, but Gordon would survive, and he would not be walking into a trap.

He thought again of his daughter lying in the hospital bed. He thought of the photograph the Joker had left on the floor of the intensive care ward.

He walked into the park.

##

The music was coming from a carousel, which spun cheerfully, its horses going up and down. Gordon didn’t approach the carousel, instead standing next to the darkened kiosks nearby.

He could see the Gotham City skyline over the river, bright and glittering. A helicopter skimmed over some buildings, and the wail of a siren rose in the distance. At the far end of the island, commercial airplanes came in for a landing at the international airport.

There was still no one in the amusement park. Gordon waited warily. He knew that this was a trap for him, and that the Joker would not kill him straight away as long as he played along. The Joker liked to toy with people.

With a sudden whump of noise, the power turned on in the entire park. Gordon froze as lights came on all around him. The speakers overhead crackled and then started blaring calliope music.

Canned laughter came from the kiosk next to him. Gordon stepped back, staring at it. It was another kiosk full of prizes. The laughter was coming from a speaker in the top corner. It was so loud that it set his teeth on edge.

He started to turn away from the kiosk, then stopped. His eye had been caught by a stuffed animal on the top shelf. It was very familiar. And the dolls in the row next to it—he’d seen them before.

His eyes ran down the row. There was the doll he had bought Bobbie when she broke her wrist two years ago. There was the stuffed bear that she had carried around everywhere when she was three. In a row under that, there were all of her shoes.

Gordon took an involuntary step closer to the kiosk. There was clothes on hangers hanging from the top of the kiosk. One of her dresses, the one that she wore to church, was pinned to the wall.

While Gordon and his family had been in the waiting room of the hospital, the Joker had been in their house, cleaning it out.

Gordon found himself climbing over the counter and into the kiosk without even thinking about it. He yanked the dress down from the wall and pulled all the shoes off the shelf. He was breathing hard. There was such a rage inside of him that he was dizzy with it. The man had _shot his daughter_ and then he had _stolen her belongings_ from their house. He had snuck into the hospital and _taken Bobbie’s picture_ in the intensive care ward.

Gordon pulled her stuffed animals down from the shelf and then froze. On the shelf in front of him, at eye level, was a clear plastic box. Curled lovingly inside the box was a lock of bright red hair, tied with a ribbon.

Gordon let out a noise that could have been a cry of rage. At the same time he heard a noise behind him. He whipped around and saw a door just closing in the House of Mirrors across the way.

He lunged over the counter again and sprinted for the House of Mirrors. At this moment, he didn’t care if it were the Joker or one of his men or even some carnival maintenance person. He was too angry. His gun was in his hand.

He burst through the front doors of the House of Mirrors. The lights inside the house flashed and strobed like a dance club, and music played crazily out of hidden speakers. He could hear footsteps receding into the maze of mirrors, and he ran.

His reflection surrounded him on all sides. He barely recognized his own face, twisted with rage as it was. His breath was coming harshly, almost in sobs. He stumbled around a corner and heard someone laughing up ahead.

Gordon’s own reflection lunged at him and he recoiled, narrowly avoiding a collision with a mirror. He turned away, his hand trailing over the mirrors, trying to find a way through. He was dizzy, and the strobing lights weren’t helping.

He stumbled into another mirror, this time not able to avoid it. He reared back and punched the mirror with the butt of his gun. The mirror cracked, splitting his reflection into a hundred smaller ones. He spun away from it and tried another route. Where had the Joker gone? He couldn’t even hear the footsteps anymore. Had the Joker disappeared? Or was he standing somewhere, waiting for Gordon? Out of the corner of his eye, Gordon saw movement. He spun around and fired the gun without thinking, and a mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, revealing black painted wall behind it.

Someone started laughing wildly. Gordon turned in a circle. He could see tears on his cheeks, but he couldn’t tell why. Where had the exit gone? Which way had he come? He was lost.

Gordon raised the gun and fired again and again, shattering mirrors. Glass littered the floor, and the fragments of black wall gave him enough perspective to find a way out of the area, although he couldn’t tell if it was the way he’d come or not.

He stepped around the corner and jerked back when he saw a man wearing a clown mask. He fired and another mirror shattered. He turned and fired again. A second clown appeared in the mirrors. The Joker’s men? One of them raised a hand with a taser in it. He ducked out of the way, but he didn’t know which reflection was the one holding the real taser.

The tiny darts caught him in the bicep and complete incapacitation followed. Gordon shrieked and dropped to the ground, all of his muscles gone out of his control. The gun fell out of his hand, clattering onto broken glass. A third and fourth clown had joined the first two. The charge ended and the clown tasered him again.

Gordon jerked like a puppet. After the first scream, he couldn’t scream again. Someone was laughing. It echoed around him, or maybe more than one of them were laughing, or maybe it was coming over the speakers.

There was a flash of light. Gordon’s eyes snapped to the right, where the Joker—the real Joker—stepped out of a hallway with a camera held to his eye. It flashed again, and then the Joker lowered it and grinned.

“Looks like we caught a, ah, little _fish_ on our line,” he said. The electricity stopped and Gordon’s body went limp. He panted, unable to move. The Joker stopped, standing over him.

“A little bait fish,” the Joker said. “Let’s see if we can use him to catch something bigger.”

##

Seb’s ears kept ringing long after the explosion had ended. He came back to himself slowly, still hearing things crashing to the ground and the roar of fire somewhere nearby. Everything sounded hollow and muffled by the continuous noise in his head of the explosion.

 _Jim._ He had to find Jim. No, that wasn’t his first priority. First was making sure he had all of his arms and legs. There seemed to be something heavy on his legs, but the fact that he could tell that meant that he still had his legs, so he took that as a good sign.

There was something soft underneath him, and when he cracked his left eye open, he saw Jim’s face close to his, eyes closed and mouth slack. His pulse jumped at his throat. Well, there was that sorted, then.

“Jim,” Seb tried to whisper. Jim made an unintelligible noise. Seb pulled one arm out from underneath himself and made a cursory check of his own body, making sure nothing was broken or bleeding. There was a gash in his left shoulder, but the blood was already drying. One of his eyes was starting to swell shut.

The heavy thing on his legs turned out to be part of the card table. Seb had a dim memory of the table sweeping them both off their feet. It had apparently spared them a bit from the fire of the explosion. They had been a good thirty feet from the table before it exploded, which had given them enough of a head start that the concussive blast hadn’t done too much damage. The amount of explosive would have killed them if they had been closer, but it hadn’t been enough to put the snipers in the catwalks in danger.

The snipers. They would most likely still be there, waiting for signs of life. In a minute, they would come down to check if Seb and Jim were really dead. Seb didn’t dare sit up.

“Jim,” he whispered again. “Are you awake?”

“ ’M okay,” Jim mumbled.

“Stay still,” Seb hissed. He moved one arm slowly, groping for the SIG that he’d been carrying when he entered the room. He had dropped it in the blast, but when he turned his head slightly, he could see it about three feet from his hand, partly hidden under some rubble.

Jim opened his eyes, more alert. His pupils responded to the light, which was a relief. At least he hadn’t fractured his skull.

“There were three snipers,” Jim whispered. “The Joker isn’t here.”

“I know.” Seb didn’t move his head, but he strained to hear footsteps. The card table was giving them the advantage of shielding their bodies from view, keeping the snipers from firing blindly at them to make sure they were dead, although it wouldn’t keep out a bullet if the snipers decided to do just that. It also kept Seb from telling where the snipers were. And if Seb moved his legs, the table would shift, telling the snipers that they were alive.

“My SIG is over there.” Seb shifted his eyes toward it and Jim followed his glance. “I can’t move to get it.”

Jim looked past Seb’s shoulder to the card table. Somewhere in the room, a catwalk rattled as someone walked down it.

Jim wriggled slowly out from under Seb, trying to move as little as possible. Seb twisted his head to look over his shoulder, keeping his eye on the fragment of catwalk that he could see. The footsteps were coming closer. Once the sniper got to that part of the catwalk, he’d be able to see Seb and Jim and would fire.

There was a faint clatter as rubble dislodged itself under Jim. He muttered something under his breath and then edged forward again. Seb heard the scrape of metal on stone, and then Jim started crawling back to him.

“Quickly,” Seb hissed. Jim slapped the gun into his hand. The man appeared on the catwalk above them. Seb raised the gun and fired.

At the same time, Jim rolled to his feet and started running for the door, which was only a few steps away. The man on the catwalk collapsed, gutshot. Seb kicked the card table off his legs and scrambled to his feet. One bullet from one of the remaining snipers shattered the card table, sending splinters flying. The second bullet chipped the floor at Seb’s feet. He ran.

He reached the doorway and made it through before the snipers could let out another shot. Jim was by the exit, waiting. His suit was torn and dirty from the explosion, and there was blood trickling down his neck, but otherwise he looked the picture of serenity, waiting in the hall.

Seb dug a hand in his pocket and took out the car keys. He tossed them to Jim.

“We don’t have time for this,” Jim said, sounding a bit put out.

Seb ignored him, staying by the doorway leading into the large room. He dropped down to his stomach and looked around the corner just long enough to pinpoint the location of another sniper, then retreated and got back to his feet.

“I’ll only be a minute,” he said.

Jim crossed his arms over his chest and waited. Seb leaned around the corner and fired at the sniper, withdrawing back around the corner before he even saw whether he’d hit his mark. The gratifying sound of a shout and bullet splintering bone told him he’d made the shot.

“Two down,” Jim said.

There was silence in the other room. The other sniper would most likely be aiming at the door, just waiting for Seb to poke his head around again. Seb waited, still listening. He didn’t dare attempt the same thing he’d just done, but if he waited too long, the sniper might find another exit out of the room and escape. He’d certainly already notified the Joker that they were alive.

Seb shrugged off his suit jacket, which was ruined anyway. He held it in one hand and waited a second, then tossed it into the room at an angle away from himself. The first burst of shots rattled out, shredding the jacket and telling him where the sniper was located. Before the sniper could swing his gun back to the doorway, Seb leaned around the corner and sighted down the barrel at the sniper. He pulled the trigger.

“Are we ready to go?” Jim said impatiently as the final sniper screamed.

Seb holstered his SIG. “The Joker knows we survived,” he replied. “He’ll only set up another trap.”

“He won’t have time.” Jim tossed the keys back to Seb. “He’s too busy springing a trap for Batman. We’ll find them both at the same time.”


	6. Chapter 6

The entire carnival was alight when Batman, Sherlock and John reached the fence. The rides were all running, cars sliding along their tracks or spinning in the air. The music played jauntily. But something seemed off about it. For one thing, there were no people around. All of the cars were empty. There were no smells of frying foods because no one manned the booths. There were no voices.

They avoided the pre-made hole in the fence and circled around for a bit until they found a better stretch of fence that was shielded from view. Batman cut through with wire cutters. It was the second time John had seen him in his Batman costume. Here in the darkness of the night, he moved like a shadow, in a way he hadn’t in their flat.

“He’ll be expecting me,” Batman said to John and Sherlock in a low voice. “He won’t be expecting you two. We can use that to our advantage.”

“If only we had guns, we’d make a better impression,” Sherlock drawled.

“No guns,” Batman said curtly.

“I fail to see why not. The Joker won’t hesitate using them on us.”

“I don’t use guns, and I’m letting you in here under my protection,” Batman answered curtly.

Sherlock snorted and Batman glared at him. “I don’t want anyone to die here tonight. Not even the Joker. He belongs in jail, and I’m not going to be the one to deny him that justice.”

“You’re just putting the rest of us in danger,” Sherlock said.

“I can do this on my own if I need to.”

“You may think being alone makes you stronger, but it doesn’t.” Sherlock said in frustration. John glanced at him but Sherlock did not look back.

“I’m going to go in there and save Gordon,” Batman said coolly. “Come in if you want. I’ll meet you at the Excalibur.”

He disappeared through the hole in the fence. Sherlock went right after him. John went last, more hesitant. His shoulder throbbed, and he hated the idea of heading in unarmed, but he wasn’t going to let Sherlock go in on his own.

By the time John emerged, Batman was gone as if he’d never existed. John couldn’t even see a shadow moving. He looked around.

“Stick to the shadows,” Sherlock said. He stepped sidewalks and ducked behind a low building that housed restrooms. John followed.

They stopped a moment later, Sherlock holding up his hand. John saw him crouch down and start tugging delicately at something on the edge of the building. John leaned in for a closer look and then sucked in a breath and recoiled.

“Are you insane?” he hissed. “That’s a grenade!”

Sherlock patiently worked the grenade free of the duct tape and coiled the trip wire. “Now we’re armed,” he whispered back.

“You’re not going to use a grenade!”

Sherlock looked back at him and put the grenade in the pocket of his coat. John winced.

Somewhere to his left, in the open area of the park, John heard footsteps. Sherlock leaned around the edge of the building to see, then drew back.

“Man in a clown mask,” he whispered to John.

“Does he see us?”

Sherlock gave a sharp shake of his head. The footsteps retreated. Sherlock stepped out of the shadows and moved to the back of the next building. John took his place at the edge of the building, peering out.

About a hundred feet away, he saw a man in a clown mask with an automatic weapon in his arms walking down the path to the carousel. He stopped, turned on his heel and started coming back, walking slowly and scanning the skies. John stayed back in the shadows and watched the man pass by them again. He disappeared out of sight.

John gave it another few seconds, then joined Sherlock at the next building. Sherlock was waiting for him.

“Judging from the area that man is covering, there will be six men patrolling the perimeter,” whispered Sherlock. “He was obviously looking for Batman. He had a radio on his belt to alert the others if he sees anything.”

“What are we going to do?” John asked. He heard the footsteps returning again.

Sherlock peered out at the man again. Then, instead of responding, he disappeared around the corner.

John stifled a curse and snuck a glance out after him. The clown was just passing them. Sherlock grabbed the man’s gun arm, forcing it down, and quickly wrapped his other arm around the man’s throat. He was a head taller than the man, and the man barely had time to let out a croak.

John came around the edge of the building and hurried to them. He quickly disarmed the man and yanked the radio from his belt. Sherlock dragged the man back into the shadows, still holding his throat. The man’s legs gave out and he sagged. Sherlock pulled the mask off his head and checked his pulse, then let him drop to the ground.

“One down,” he whispered. He took the trip wire from the grenade in his pocket and tied the man hand and foot, slapping the duct tape across his mouth.

“You could have been killed,” John hissed. “I have experience disarming people.”

“You have an injured arm,” Sherlock replied. “And now we have a gun and a grenade. Let’s go before they realize that he’s missing.”

He started across the pavement for the brightly lit kiosks beyond. John hurried after him.

They had arranged ahead of time to meet Batman at the Excalibur. After examining a map of the park, Sherlock had decided that it was obviously the best place for the Joker to set up his trap. It was close to two exits in case he needed a quick escape. There was a pavilion before the roller coaster where patrons could wait out of the sun that was still open to the air, which made it sheltered enough to avoid someone coming in from above, but open enough to avoid being surrounded.

John felt exposed as they hurried between the booths, bathed in bright lights. The aisles were empty, but that didn’t mean that someone couldn’t wander in at any second. Sherlock brought them straight through to an old wooden roller coaster, then led the way along the fence that took them into a more shadowy area. When he stopped again, behind a heavily-padlocked brick storage building, they had a relatively clear view of the Excalibur pavilion.

As predicted, John could see figures inside the pavilion. A man in a purple suit stood over another man, who was bound hand and foot and had been stripped of all his clothes. Gordon, John guessed. Three other men in clown masks, holding guns, stood around the perimeter of the pavilion.

Even as John watched, one of the men let out a clipped cry and was yanked suddenly up onto the roof of the pavilion. The Joker whirled around. Laughter echoed around the pavilion.

“Do I feel a big fish tugging on the line?” he crowed. He turned again and poked at Gordon with his foot, none too gently. “Cheer up, Commissioner. The cavalry arrived.”

The two other men with guns circled around the pavilion, peering up at the roof, although the lights of the roller coaster were in their eyes. The second one disappeared into the roof. This time he let out a few shots into the pavement before he was yanked out of sight.

The Joker crouched down next to Gordon and drew a gun. The third man fired up into the sky until his clip ran out. A black shadow descended on him from above, landing on him heavily and riding him to the ground. When Batman rose, holding the gun, the man lay still. Batman threw the gun away across the pavement.

“You have my attention,” Batman growled, turning to the Joker.

“I’m so flattered that you come when I call,” the Joker replied, rising slowly to his feet, still holding the gun aimed at Gordon. “I thought about putting an ad in the missed connections section of the paper.” He spread his hands. “ ‘ _You were wearing a black bulletproof gimp suit. I’d just killed your girlfriend. There was a connection there and I know you felt it too. Let’s get together and rekindle that spark_.’ ”

“What is this about, Joker?”

The Joker grinned. “You and me, we’re a lot alike.” His tongue darted out to lick his lips. “The only difference is you think you’re above all this, and I know better. You think you’re better than me, because you use your crazy for good and not evil.”

Batman remained still. The only part of him that moved was his cape, stirring in the wind. Otherwise he could be a statue.

“Madness is like gravity, remember? I pushed Harvey Dent over the edge, and he ran with it.”

“You manipulated him,” Batman said.

“It didn’t take much. Kill a girlfriend.” The Joker nudged Gordon with his foot. “Shoot a little girl.”

Gordon let out a sound of anguish. Batman looked down at Gordon and John saw Batman lean forward a little, as if he wanted to step forward but caught himself. The Joker saw it too, and laughed.

“Think of it as an experiment,” the Joker said with a laugh. “I pushed him over the edge. Let’s see if he can—”

Sherlock hissed under his breath and John straightened. A red dot had appeared on the Joker’s chest.

Batman saw it too, and he lunged. The Joker, taken completely by surprise, managed half a step backward before Batman landed on him and the two of them hit the ground and rolled. A bullet gouged into the cement floor and the report of the sniper rifle echoed through the park.

“Moriarty!” Sherlock said, straightening. John could hear the sound of a shell ejecting, as clear as if it was right next to him. Sherlock turned, looking towards the side of the park that bordered a stand of trees. John followed his gaze. He couldn’t see anything, but the shot had come from that direction.

“Stay out of sight,” Sherlock said, and then started sprinting beside the fence.

John ran after him. His breath sawed in his throat after only a few seconds of running, since he was still so out of shape from the months of recovery, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t let Sherlock go into this alone.

He joined Sherlock behind another building. Sherlock sent him an annoyed look. “I told you to wait.”

“No,” John said, too out of breath to offer more than that.

“You can’t get shot again.”

“Not planning on it,” John said between gasps.

“Stay,” Sherlock said, and started running again. John ran. He heard another shot, and wondered if Batman had been hit.

Behind the next building, Sherlock peered out towards the fence a hundred feet away from them. “Moran’s on the other side,” he said. “From the angle of the first shot, I don’t think he’s too high off the ground. Maybe sitting on the roof of a car.

John paused to catch his breath, leaning on his knees. “What’s the plan?” he gasped.

“Plan?” Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at him. “Stay here.”

He started around the edge of the building again. John lunged after him and grabbed his arm. “You can’t go after them without a plan!”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at him, shaking off his grip. John saw the second Sherlock’s expression changed from annoyance to horror. He looked down at his chest and saw the red dot.

 _I can’t do this again,_ he had time to think.

Then Sherlock was pushing him out of the way. Distantly, John heard the crack of the rifle again. Warm blood erupted against his chest and face. He waited for the pain to hit. The ground hit first, and the pain failed to follow.

Sherlock collapsed on top of him and went still.

##

Batman and the Joker hit the ground and rolled, the report of the first shot still echoing around them. Batman ended the roll on top and didn’t stop moving, leaping to his feet and dragging the Joker up with him. The Joker stumbled, absolutely shellshocked.

“What the _fuck_ —” the Joker managed.

Batman yanked him behind a ticket booth and then glanced out at Gordon. Gordon was still lying there, unharmed. His mouth was duct taped shut and his eyes were very wide.

Cold steel touched his chin. Batman turned back to the Joker, who was grinning at him. From up close, the scars on his cheeks were even more grotesque. He was holding a gun to Batman’s face. Batman recognized it as Gordon’s.

“Enough games, sweetheart,” the Joker said quietly. “It’s just you and me.”

“I’m not the one playing around,” Batman growled back. He was burning with energy now. It had been five days since the breakout at Arkham. Five days since he’d had a decent amount of sleep, and since he’d thought of anything except catching the Joker and getting him back to Arkham. He had been off his game and he had let the Joker hurt people, but no more. He felt guilt, and behind that he felt fury still at the deaths of Rachel and Harvey.

The Joker’s eyelashes flickered. “I could pull the trigger right here,” he said. “The end of Batman.”

“You went through too much trouble to end it like that,” Batman replied.

The gun clicked as the Joker drew back the hammer. His grin widened. “Just a little push, Batsy. One bad day. That’s all it takes. I broke Harvey. I broke Gordon. You don’t have anyone left now but me. It’s empty in your world.” He leaned in. “Come on in. The water’s warm.”

Batman met his gaze. “I’d rather die,” he said.

The Joker pulled the trigger. The gun clicked on empty. Batman grabbed the Joker’s wrist and yanked the gun out of it as the Joker started to laugh. He wrenched the Joker around and cuffed his hands behind his back.

“You knew it was empty,” Batman said to him, restraining him with more force than necessary. The Joker’s shoulders shook with laughter.

“Did I?” giggled the Joker. He tipped back his head to look at Batman sideways over his shoulder. “ _You_ didn’t.”

##

“Did you hit him?” Jim was leaning forward on the hood of the car, holding a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

“I hit one of them,” Seb said, squinting through the sight of the rifle. He ejected the shell.

“I told you not to hit Holmes.”

Seb shrugged. “He jumped in front of it.”

“ _I told you not to hit him_.” Jim’s voice was furious.

Suddenly Seb was angry too. “Why the fuck not? Our lives would be easier with him dead.”

Jim lowered the binoculars and glared at him. “I’m not done with him yet,” he snarled. When he got angry like this, he was like a wild animal, his pupils dilated, his jaw set.

“You’d have let him shoot the bomb at the pool,” Seb responded hotly. “You would put yourself in danger for the sake of the game.”

Jim’s mouth was pressed into a thin line. He turned back to the park and raised his binoculars again. “They’re behind the building now,” he said in a tight voice.

Seb looked through the rifle sight again. If one of them was injured or dead, they would stay behind there for a while. He transferred his attention back to the ticket booth where Batman and the Joker were taking shelter. There was a man lying on the ground of the pavilion, bound hand and foot. Seb couldn’t tell if he was alive or not, but he wasn’t going to waste a bullet on the stranger. If it was a friend of someone, they might stray into his line of fire to check on the man.

Further back in the park, Seb saw three figures running toward them. They were men in clown masks, holding guns. The Joker’s men, then. He adjusted his aim calmly and squeezed off a shot. One of the men dropped and the other two scattered for cover. That would take care of them for a while.

“I need a better angle,” Seb said, drawing back from the gun. “We’ll drive around to the gate.”

“You go,” Jim replied. “Get rid of Batman and the Joker. I need to do damage control.”

Seb hesitated, then silently drew his SIG. He passed it to Jim.

“I’ll meet you at the gate,” Jim said.

##

John ripped off his shirt and wadded it into a ball, pressing it against the gaping wound in Sherlock’s flank. Blood soaked through it nearly immediately.

“Stay with me,” he begged, his voice cracking. He knew he was sounding like a movie script but there was nothing else he could think to say. Sherlock was pale and shaking, his eyes unfocused. His hands were curled in the air as if he was going to try to help John but couldn’t think of what to do.

“I don’t know what you were thinking,” John said, staunching the flow of blood. The bullet had missed his heart but it had torn straight through his torso, and the exit wound was the size of John’s fist.

“John—” Sherlock gasped, gagging on the word. John darted a glance at Sherlock’s face. There was blood on his lips. Ruptured lung then, too. John knew what that felt like.

“Shh,” John whispered. “Save your breath.”

“Moriarty—” Sherlock managed.

“We’re behind the building. He can’t shoot us from here,” John said. He yanked the belt out of his pants and wrapped it around Sherlock to hold the wadded shirt in place, tight against the wound. Then he raised his head.

There was another shot in the distance. Moran had turned his attention back to Batman and the Joker. He must have considered them neutralized.

“Call the—police,” Sherlock rasped. “They’ll—run.”

John looked down at him. “If Moriarty runs this time, you won’t be able to find him again.”

Sherlock coughed wetly and John cursed himself for encouraging the conversation.

Sherlock shook his head. “He’ll kill you.”

“But you spent weeks trying to find him,” John insisted. He didn’t know why he was arguing the point, since Sherlock was showing a remarkable amount of sense. But he had seen how obsessed Sherlock had become with Moriarty. It seemed unthinkable that he would let Moriarty slip away again.

Sherlock just looked up at him, and John suddenly realized how stupid he was being. Sherlock hadn’t taken that bullet by _accident._ He had done it for John, and John knew Sherlock well enough that to know that Sherlock hadn’t done it to repay a debt. He had done it because he didn’t want John dead, and he was willing to sacrifice a lot—his life, capturing Moriarty—to keep John alive.

“Right,” John said breathlessly. He raised his head. “The police…” His mobile was in his pocket, but it was useless out of the UK. There might be a phone in the park, but it would likely be locked up in a booth somewhere. Batman had left his car out on the road. That would be his best bet, but it was nearly on the other side of the park from where he was, and the route was blocked with grenades and the Joker’s men.

He suddenly realized that he still had the henchman’s radio in his pocket. He turned it on and began turning the dial, trying to find a working channel. The radio was only short range, and the park was too far away from the city to do much good. The closest thing to them now was a residential area, and unless there were people listening to radios at this time in the morning, he wasn’t going to get in touch with anyone.

“Mayday, mayday,” he said into the radio. “There are gunmen in the amusement park. We need police assistance.”

There was no answer. After a pause, he changed the channel and repeated the message.

There had been no more shots from Moran, which could mean that he couldn’t get a clear shot off, or could mean that he was moving around to get a better vantage point. In either case, John couldn’t wait to find out. He had to get to a phone somehow.

John reached down and touched Sherlock’s bloody hand. “I’m going to get help,” he whispered. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. John squeezed his hand, then let go and got to his feet. Then he hesitated. Sherlock still had the grenade and the gun. Thank god Seb’s shot hadn’t touched the grenade. John pulled it out of Sherlock’s pocket and held it tightly in his hand, then looked at the gun.

“I’m leaving that with you,” he said. “Defend yourself with it.”

Thirty feet away was the last building they had hidden behind. Another forty feet beyond that was the brick storage building they had sheltered behind to watch Batman and the Joker. Then around the roller coaster, through the center of the park, back to the booth where they had taken the grenade and disabled the henchman, out through the hole in the fence—he was never going to make it that far. Not before Sherlock bled out.

John let out a shaky breath. He would get to the brick storage house and then see if he could get to Batman. Maybe Batman had prevailed over the Joker. Batman must have some sort of radio on him.

He glanced over toward the woods where Moran had been shooting, then back toward his destination. He ran.

The spot between his shoulder blades itched for his whole run, but he made it without incident. He paused to catch his breath, then got ready to run to the storage building.

The run to the storage building was a little longer, but he made it again, and now he was convinced that Moran was moving to a better vantage point. He ducked behind it and looked out to where Batman and the Joker had been. He couldn’t see anyone there. They might be hiding behind the ticket booth, but he couldn’t tell from here. Gordon was gone too. John’s heart sank.

If they weren’t there, his plan was out. He couldn’t comb the park looking for Batman now. He would have to go back to the original plan, armed only with a dodgy grenade. If only he had some way of drawing attention to the park. It was strange enough that the power was on, but if he could start a fire, perhaps, maybe people would call the police. He had a grenade. What here was flammable?

John looked up at the wooden roller coaster to his right. That might work, although it would take a while to really get going. Still, it was his best bet. He rested his hand on the edge of the brick building and looked around the corner again to see if he could see any of the Joker’s men.

As he did so, he suddenly noticed the sign on the front of the brick building.

 _Warning,_ it said. _Flammable._

And below that it said, _Fireworks._

##

Sherlock lay on his back on the pavement and stared up at the sky.

He was in so much pain at the moment that he couldn’t think straight. It was hard to breathe. Was this what a collapsed lung felt like? Apparently so. He was shaking, too, and it was getting hard to see. He was going into shock, he suspected. He might not recover from it.

Nearby, he could hear a car engine come to a stop. That would be Moriarty and Moran, which meant Sherlock had been right that Moran had been using the roof of the car to get a better view of them. They would be moving around to get a better shot at either him or at Batman and the Joker. Sherlock hoped that John was well out of there. Surely John had realized that the best way to stay alive was to get out of the park as soon as possible. At least he wouldn’t get shot again while he was calling for help.

Sherlock suspected he was too far gone for help.

Footsteps clacked on the pavement. Not the sort of shoe that the henchmen would wear. It wasn’t John or Batman or the Joker. That left Moriarty. Sherlock groped for the gun that John had left him, but his fingers didn’t want to close around it.

“Don’t tell me he left you here,” came Moriarty’s voice, sounding faintly amused. He stopped over Sherlock and looked down at him, nudging the gun away with his foot. He was holding a SIG. “I was going to shoot him in the head.”

Sherlock couldn’t say anything without wasting precious air, so he just looked up at Moriarty. He hadn’t been face to face with the man since the pool. Moriarty’s suit was torn this time, and there was dried blood on his face.

Moriarty crouched down next to him, peering at Sherlock’s wound. He winced theatrically. “That doesn’t look good, does it?” He looked back into Sherlock’s face. “It’s a good job Watson is a combat medic. If only he were here.”

“Why’re—you here—” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

Moriarty smiled. “I just wanted to see the extent of the wounds. If you’re going to die, I’d like to be here for it. I wouldn’t put it past you to decide to fake your own death just to put me off the trail.”

Which meant he wasn’t planning on killing Sherlock right now. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to relax. Moriarty read his thoughts in his face.

“A mind is a terrible thing to waste. Especially yours, Sherlock. Now Watson, on the other hand…” Moriarty lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Maybe this is news to you, but he’s not that special.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. _Please, John,_ he thought. _Leave the park. Don’t come back._

“Wake up.” Moriarty patted him on the cheek. Sherlock opened his eyes again. They felt gummy. “John’s going to come back, and I want you to see his face when I shoot him.”

Sherlock stared up at him. Blackness was eating away the edges of his vision. He wasn’t going to be conscious for it, no matter how hard he tried. He had to warn John somehow.

Moriarty smiled, and then the side of his face was lit with a bright blaze of yellow light. There was a loud bang somewhere close by, and then—

Then there was a noise so loud that Sherlock felt it in his whole body, and the ground shuddered under him, and the carnival lit up as bright as day. The sky filled with light, red and yellow and blue and green and white, and the explosions kept coming, banging and screeching. Moriarty lifted his head in surprise and then rose to his feet, and it was so bright that even Sherlock could see it, and the last thing he saw as his vision faded away was the silhouette of Moriarty looking up into brilliant sky.

##

 **  
Epilogue**

##

Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway of the hospital room and watched the reunion.

Sherlock was in the hospital bed, looking for all the world like some sort of injured stick insect. He blinked sleepily as John came over to the bed.

“John,” he murmured, sounding relieved.

“They wouldn’t let me in to see you, since I’m not family,” John said, pulling over a chair and sitting down. He glanced over his shoulder at Bruce, making a move as if to find another chair, but Bruce just waved him away. John turned back to Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock said, reaching out blearily. John caught his hand and laid it down on the bed. “Why aren’t I dead?”

John laughed shakily. “I woke the whole neighborhood with that explosion. There were police there in ten minutes. Moriarty and Moran were gone by then. Jesus, Sherlock, don’t jump in front of a bullet ever again.”

“Of course not.” Sherlock shook his head. “It’s your turn again.”

John snorted and Bruce smiled. Sherlock tugged at John’s hand.

“No, but John,” he said, as firmly as he was capable under such heavy painkillers. “Don’t ever take a bullet for me again. I know what it’s like now. It’s not worth it. Promise me.”

John smiled. “I’ll try my best,” he said, which wasn’t a promise at all.

Bruce watched from the doorway as John launched in an explanation of everything that had happened since he’d left Sherlock on the ground. After a moment, he stepped back out of the hotel room, leaving them alone.

The Joker was back in Arkham, where he belonged. The Scarecrow had been found in the smoldering wreckage of a warehouse. The Coast Guard had picked up a ship as it attempted to unload cargo at that very warehouse, and they had confiscated several tons of the raw components of the fear toxin.

James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran were gone. There was no trace of them in the city at all. The only sign that they had been there at all was the bullet holes in the booths at the carnival.

Bruce walked down the hall slowly, giving John and Sherlock time to catch up. John would be staying with him for the next week as Sherlock recovered enough to be released. After that, Bruce suspected that the two of them would head back to London, and he would be left alone in Gotham once again.

Up until now, being alone hadn’t seemed strange. He’d always thought that Batman was meant to be a solitary endeavor. You didn’t work with friends when you were lurking in the shadows, fighting for justice. Friends were a liability. The Joker had proven his point there. Harvey Dent, Batman’s one hope for retirement, had been twisted and destroyed by the Joker. Rachel Dawes, his love and the only woman who knew his secret identity, had been murdered. Friends got hurt. He had to work alone.

Except somehow, Sherlock managed it.

Bruce stopped in the doorway of another hospital room. There was a little girl in a bed in this room. Gordon, in casual clothes, sat in a chair and held her hand. He was too engrossed in his daughter to notice Bruce.

Gordon had always been more of a business acquaintance than friend. Bruce had always held him at arms’ length, never telling him his real identity. Since Batman was a fugitive from the law, and Gordon was the Police Commissioner, he had tried his best not to get Gordon in trouble.

He had obviously failed.

It seemed apparent that everyone already knew that Gordon was connected with him. There was no turning back now. Even if he divorced himself from Gordon completely, Gordon was still going to be a target.

Gordon chose that moment to look over his shoulder at Bruce. He stared blankly for a second before his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Mr. Wayne?” he said.

Bruce hesitated a moment longer, then stepped into the room. Gordon’s expression was a combination of polite confusion and faint annoyance. Bruce Wayne was an intruder into his private life.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Bruce said.

Gordon glanced down at Bobbie. “She’s asleep,” he said.

Bruce stopped at the foot of the bed. He glanced down at Bobbie, then at Gordon. There were circles under his eyes. He looked exhausted, although better than he’d looked at the park.

“I know this isn’t the time or the place to discuss business,” Bruce said.

Gordon kept staring at him, making no response.

“A few days ago you told me that you wanted to help,” Bruce said. “You said I didn’t have to take this on alone.”

In the beat of silence, Gordon’s eyes suddenly went wide. He straightened in his chair. Bruce continued before he could speak.

“You have every right to rescind that offer. But if you’re still interested…” Bruce paused. “Then so am I.”

“Bruce,” Gordon said, and appeared so shocked that he left it at that.

Bruce smiled. “Take your time,” he said, and turned on his heel.

He had made it into the hall when Gordon shouted “Bruce!”

Bruce turned back. Gordon was in the doorway, panting a little. He looked left and right, then extended his hand.

“Count me in,” he said.


End file.
